


For Us

by Zandrammas



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Continuation, F/M, Female De Sardet (GreedFall), Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Reunions, Romance, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 103,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zandrammas/pseuds/Zandrammas
Summary: Aurelie De Sardet has chosen to bind herself to Constantin even in the wake of his madness. Forsaking both Tir Fradi and her companions to a dark fate.However becoming New Gods is not as easy as they assume, for numerous obstacles and betrayals bar their path to power. Will they have the strength to build a new and better world? Or will they plunge it into madness and chaos?
Relationships: Constantin d'Orsay & De Sardet, Constantin d'Orsay/De Sardet, De Sardet/Vasco (GreedFall)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 86





	1. Into the Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Quick reminder that De Sardet and Constantin are not related by blood.
> 
> Special thank you to my beta, Smol Coffee!

** ༄  ** **I.**

  
  


"Why? Why have you done this?" She can just barely choke out, fighting back the tears that threaten to stream down her flushed cheeks.

Enveloped within the tendrils of darkness, his pale golden eyes watch her carefully. His fair nature-etched features twisted and shattered her soul with the expression of deep, heartbreaking melancholy.

"For you. For us," Constantin replied softly .Depthless desire clouded the madness in his voice and the revelation shakes her to the core, making the water gathered within her jade gaze flow freely. It is a confession, one that Aurelie De Sardet has longed for since the days of their childhood. Back when everything was so simple, yet so pure. She distantly remembers the scent of lavender in the gardens of Serene and playing tag with her beloved cousin amongst the flowers. They were only children then, watching the stars side by side. She could taste him upon her lips still from when he kissed her that night beneath the moon, all those years before their departure to Tir Fradi.

Since then anything beyond the feelings one would have for a cousin were swiftly bottled up; hidden in the dark recesses of her mind, the emotions begged to be released. At the time, Aurelie devoted herself to the duty of protecting her cousin instead of dwelling upon sinful thoughts; She knew that to act upon them would mean disaster for them both… however that all changed when Petrus revealed her true lineage. What she had hidden now bubbled to the surface and there was naught she could do about it.

"This new world is my gift to you." 

He held out a gloved hand in the broken silence, his startlingly pale gaze pleading for her to take it, to give her body and mind to power, to chaos, to him.

"Bind yourself, here, with me; and we'll be gods together, forever."

Aurelie could barely hear _en on mil frichtimen's_ roaring protest over the pounding of her own heart. For months she had built relationships for the Congregation, forged alliances and sought to make Tir Fradi a better place, not just for herself, but Constantin as well. It was the only way they could truly be free of the Prince’s dark dealings and manipulations. If she took his hand now, it would all be for naught, she knew. Yet the temptation to rule by Constantin's side was unexpectedly desirous despite the shadow of insanity that lingered in his gaze. She had promised long ago that she would always be by his side and since then that promise had never wavered, even if her heart did..

And now he wanted her to walk right into the flames and never blink or look back.

“Trust me,” he urged softly. Ever so patient, his words were still like heated iron pressed against an open wound. She had done nothing but trust him since the very beginning. 

The dagger he gave her burned like liquid fire in her palm, the intricate golden shaft a marvel to Aurelie’s wide jade eyes.

With little hesitation, she drew the blade across her left hand, barely feeling the sting as crimson oozed from the wound. Pale dandelion eyes met jade as she stepped closer to him, placing her bloodied fingers in his own outstretched palm. It was an indescribable feeling that rushed through her trembling frame as Constantin drew her into an embrace,hot breath tickling the ruby curls upon her nape. His entire presence devoured her, dragging her down into the slick tendrils of madness that lapped at her ever breaking heart. A subtle yet burning change had bloomed in her center as their bond intertwined like a pair of lovers, intoxicating as his lean body fit against hers so perfectly, like they were made for one another.

Helplessly, Aurelie's eyes flutter closed as she loses herself in his familiar arms, inhaling his musky aroma of pine and charcoal.

"I promise you won't regret this.." he vowed to her in the gentlest whisper as the world around them was engulfed in brilliant white light. She could almost hear the screams of her companions outside _Credhenes_ gaping maw.

༄

Constantin’s concerned expression was there to greet her when she opened her eyes, loose tendrils of crimson spilling across his lap as she peers through thick lashes up at him, his fingers toying with the strands. His blond hair had faded to silvery-white in her unconsciousness but the oaken branches and remnants of Malichor still remained. Her cousin was still beautiful, now even more so with the ethereal glow about him.

Constantin’s soft lips part as if to say something, but thinking better of it he plants a tender kiss upon her brow instead.

Her bones ached from lying there for who knows how long yet she dare not move for fear of fainting.

Aurelie felt their bond thrumming with life beneath her flesh, knowing that the physical change was only just beginning. If her cousin’s rate of change was anything to go by, there were still days before she would begin to look similar to a _doniegad._

Blinking rapidly, she struggles to peer through the thick blanket of darkness that surrounds them. They had not left the volcano's protective embrace for she could make out the ebony lines of the massive tree that was now but an empty husk towering over them. The sight leaves her with a faint twinge of guilt that she quickly buries. 

The world appeared to be etched in ink, once vibrant hues of plants no more than a vivid dream. She hopes the hue would not last for she loved the verdant colours that overtook the island.

"It is only the beginning, my dear Aurelie," Constantin murmurs next to her. His calloused fingers lace with her own as he strokes her knuckles, skin is startlingly cold against hers yet she melts into the feeling all the same.

"We will make Tir Fradi better, together and build a new world from the ashes of the old."

"Together," Aurelie affirms, desperately ignoring the painful clutch of her heart. By now her.. friends were most likely torn apart and mutilated by Constantin’s creatures. 

An unwelcoming cheeky grin and pair of flashing ocean-blue eyes enters her thoughts. Vasco would be among them, heartbroken and dead amongst the bodies of his fellow sailors. Desperately attempting to run from any feelings she had for her cousin, she had ran straight into the arms of the pirate and new emotions blossomed from their friendship that eventually evolved into something more. Vasco had fallen in love with her and Aurelie had initially thought she felt the same. And yet... it was always Constantin who truly held her heart. Her cousin always held it gently in his hands though remained unaware of that fact. It did not mean that Vasco deserved the betrayal she thrust upon him. He did not deserve to lay in a bloody pool of her sins, heart in pieces and left forgotten. None of her companions did. 

"I-I..." She chokes on a sob as hot tears stream down her freckled cheekbones once more. 

Her friends now lay dead and it is all her fault.

"Hush, dearest cousin," Constantin whispers comfortingly. He leans in close to kiss the bitter salt that stains her features, his fingers tight around her own as though afraid she might break if he lets go. 

"It will all be worth it in the end. You will see, I promise. You and I are gods now. The sacrifice your friends made will not be in vain.."

Briefly slipping into his own thoughts, his strong arms delicately lifts her from the ashen ground and he pulls her against his broad chest, allowing Aurelie to wearily tuck her head into his shoulder with the softest of sighs. 

"Rest, my lucky star. When you awaken all shall be well once again," He soothes in a loving tone that nearly makes her fall apart. Unable to fight off sleep any longer, she slips into a deep slumber as Constantin carries her off into the night.


	2. Alleigance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Aurelie rests unexpected guests arrive in New Serene...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you my beta, Smol Coffee!

** ༄  ** **II.**

Only an hour ago the blackness over Tir Fradi had been absolute but now a fine silvery mist had settled, rows of deserted houses rising out of the silent charcoal curtain that was the coming dawn. The wooden windowsill beneath his fingers is callused, rough, and cold - drawing the dampness into his bones.

It is tempting to hunker down here in New Serene, to stow himself and Aurelie behind the narrow windows and peek into the world that drew its slow details like a finishing canvas.

With a sigh, Constantin peers down at his pale hands, silently observing the slight tremble in his fingers. Aurelie had been so light in his arms when he carried her out of _Credhenes_ , he had never expected it of such a remarkably strong woman, her build so slight that he was still afraid that if he pulled her any closer to him, she might break.

He had seen no survivors of his cousin's alliance in their travel back; They were either dead - their bodies meat for his creatures - or they had fled to the settlements he had yet to reduce to ash.

Very few members of the Congregation of Merchants remained when he had returned with Aurelie. He assumed they were all hastily ferried off by the Nauts to the other great cities on the island, likely preparing themselves for siege against his beasts, little difference it would make though. All who fought against him would be crushed beneath his boot.

Constantine could not bring himself to care about the destruction he had caused, for the souls he had so mercilessly taken. Their decaying bodies would be fertilizer for his new world and birth an entire forest in its wake. Grand trees would sprout forth from their broken forms, a myriad of flowers to bloom from their rich blood. Constantin can already see his dearest cousin dancing barefoot beneath verdan canopies with a joyful smile on her lips.

Free, at last.

Breaking himself away from the reverie, his chilled eyes rest upon the woman he condemned an entire world for, a halo of moonlight on her hair, wrapped up in the silken sheets of his own bed. The servants who had remained had changed her into an ivory lace nightdress for her comfort; Constantin would not have his beloved cousin uncomfortable as she began her transformation.

His footsteps are heavy as he nears the canopied bed, watching her face as her brows furrow slightly, lush lips parting from some quiet nightmare, slightly stirring in her sleep. Constantin sits beside her and takes her hand, freezing to the touch as he gently brings her fingers to his lips, pressing small kisses against them as he affectionately cups her pale cheek, stroking the rough bark of her mark.

Aurelie suffered so much in her lifetime and there is none more deserving of the godhood he has given her. It was always her who was the strongest of the two of them during their childhood years. She was the one who extinguished his fires when he made a mess of things. It was his fair cousin who never failed to comfort him in times when he could no longer bear his father’s snide remarks or mother’s manipulations. She never wavered in her loyalty for him and always sought to remain with him. She studied tirelessly to be a diplomat in Serene, devoting herself to learning of the other nations and their histories and cultures and never faltered in her time spent training with Kurt in the courtyard.

Aurelie strived for perfection her entire life... for him.

All the while he had spent his days in the beds of both men and women, giving his mind and body over to his more carnal desires. He was the freespirit who always did as he wanted, damn the consequences. His carefree attitude would kill him one day, his mother once told him, and Aurelie would surely perish alongside him. Lady d’Orsay had hit a nerve then, for a world without his dearest cousin was not worth living in.

"What could I possibly do without you?" He sighs bitterly. Careful not to harm her with his crown, he lays his head upon her abdomen.

Unexpected heat courses through his veins as he peers to her face from where he lay, the gentle rise and fall of her chest and her cream colored skin almost unbearably tempting to touch, and he removes himself before temptation could become too much.

He would rather take a knife to his own heart than act upon whim and soil her with his dirty hands. Aurelie was created to be worshiped by a soul as pure as her own, not by his - twisted and grotesque beneath his flesh.

Since leaving Serene he had found it more and more difficult to rein in thoughts of her. Long ago they had decided that nothing could happen between them for fear it would bring ruin to both their lives but now there is nothing to stop them, although still he is uncertain if Aurelie feels the same. She had been distant since arriving in Tir Fradi, leaving him lonely within New Serene's high walls, and had seemingly moved on with another - the Naut captain who had brought them to the island. Constantin loved his cousin and therefore attempted to be happy for her newfound love... yet all it did was cast him into despair. The mere thought of the captain's unclean hands upon Aurelie's body always shot a bolt of jealousy through his spine.

None are worthy of her, not Vasco and especially not himself.

He is a monsterous thing now, his hands tainted with hundreds of lives and his body scarred with Malichor. Ugly, flawed, and not worthy of Aurelie’s angelic beauty.

Constantin’s touch would only corrupt the light within her.

“M-my lord.”

Constantin’s eyes narrow as he snaps his attention to the opening door where a young maid of auburn hair meekly bows before him, her shoulders trembling and hazel eyes wide, her head immediately ducking in fear of his wrath. He had requested of his lingering staff to be left undisturbed.

“We have visitors, my lord and they are demanding to see you!” 

“Demand? Me?” Rage burns in his gut. “How dare they demand anything of me. Who are they and what do they want?”

The maid shudders beneath his piercing gaze, bottom lip wobbling as she replies, “ _mál_ Ullan of the _sisaig cnameis_ tribe and Slán, their _doneigad_. They have brought prisoners, my lord.”

Constantin dismisses the maid who quickly curtseys before fleeing.

Aurelie had told him that Ullan was one of the leaders who vied for the crown of High King, a deceptive little man who cares naught but for his own ambitions. Slán is another thing entirely. After having told him of what she discovered about her parents, Aurelie had tearfully revealed that the _doniegad_ is her aunt. He had initially been overjoyed by the fact that she had kin on the island. However after his close encounter with death, those feelings led to potent jealousy. She only ever needs him, not some strange blood relation who did not know of her existence for decades.

All the same, he knows that he cannot delay them for long. Especially not when they offer prisoners. That alone is enough to peak his curiosity. 

Constantin wanders to Aurelie’s bedside and reaches out to gently caress her head, wincing as one of his fingers discovers the start of her own branched crown growing from her scalp. 

“Fret not I shall return to you soon, my lucky star.”

And then he went.

The throne room was no longer grand and in place of his once ornate golden chair, two thrones rose through the splintered wood like twisting trees with rich canopies of sunset-orange leaves entwined and piercing through the roof, setting the room alight with dappled sunlight. Lush vines spread throughout every nook and cranny of the room, some bearing threatening spikes on their writhing forms.

Beside of the two thrones, a corrupted guardian warily watches the centered entourage...

The head of the group spoke quietly with his tense clanmates, his somber face painted charcoal and ash that framed beady almond eyes. He was a small man and hardly threatening. Just a simpering fool looking to be in the graces of the new gods.

Upon noticing Constantin’s presence, the pitiful man fell to his knees, companions hesitant but following suit.

Confidently, Constantin strolled to his throne, barely sparing the newcomers a glance until he had leisurely draped himself over the seat.

Finally, with a mere flick of the wrist, he beckons them to speak.

“ _Andevaurshd tír é,_ your majesty. I am Ullan, _mál_ of the _sisaig cnameis_ tribe.” The small man greets, shuffling forward with his eyes trained on the god’s boots. A woman bearing familiar features steps forth next to him, her bright blue gaze meeting his own. Despite the leathers and painted face of her clan, he recognizes the intensity of her eyes, splattering of freckles, and reddish braid of hair. Unmistakable, she is the _doneigad_ , Slán, Constantin silently notes to himself.

“Why have you come?” He had little patience for petty pleasantries, not while his Aurelie needed him.

“We have come to pledge our allegiance to you and ask that you spare our clan from your fury.” It was the _doneigad_ who spoke, tilting her head defiantly in spite of the words. 

“And why should I accept your pledge? Why should I spare you?”

“Because w-we have prisoners captured from _Anemhaid_. After the armies of the other nations were defeated, they alone attempted to enter the volcano. Fortunately we were there to apprehend them,” Ullan answers timidly, still not meeting Constantin’s pale gold irises. 

“I was informed that your own clan took up arms against me in that battle. If I am to spare you, I will need more than just prisoners.” 

“Then take Ullan,” Slán replies unwaverly, her emotionless mask betraying nothing, the _mál_ immediately balking as he set his fearful gaze upon the _doneigad_ , shaking near violently in his boots.

Constantin grins.

“Very well.”

A vine tendril shoots from the floor, polished wood splintering as it spears Ullan through the abdomen, twisting and curling as the leader’s mouth open in a choked scream, pryed open further by the flora before it carries his corpse up through the rafters and into the sun.

Power demonstrated, the remaining clan members openly stare at him in awe while some bow their heads to the floor with mumbled prayers he did not understand.

“Show me these prisoners you speak of,” he addresses Slán, shifting in his seat. He is anxious to return to Aurelie’s side, to watch over her as she transcends mortality and into godhood, so that she too may be worshipped as she deserves.

The _doneigad_ dips her head and steps to the side, allowing two tribe warriors to forcefully shove them before him. 

An old man dressed in a silvery gorget with snow-white hair stumbles and falls to his knees, his head bowed in sadness and defeat. Alongside him a fiery woman clad in rich greens struggles against her captors, her dark skin flush with rage, almost black eyes narrowed upon Constantin, lips curled back in a sneer.

Ah, companions of his fair cousin.

“Traitor! What have you done with Aurelie?!”

Constantin merely chuckles at this, though his heart slightly throbs from the implication. 

“Worry not, Aphra. She is safe and undergoing her transformation. Soon she shall be like me, a god powerful enough to shape this world into a new and better one.” 

Petrus slightly perks up at this, his expression filled with melancholy and disbelief as he stares up at him. 

“You crazed monster! How dare you force her to become like you!” Aphra screams, struggling against the restraints. 

“You have been misinformed.” _Mine. Aurelie is mine._ Constantin thinks to himself before casting the woman a cocky grin. 

“She gave herself to me _freely_ . Aurelie bound herself alongside me and we drained the life from _en on mil frichtimen_ together..” 

“You lie!” The Bridge Alliance scout half sobs. Beside her Petrus releases a choking sound, his blue eyes stretching wide with horror. 

“That’s enough, take them away.” Constantin orders the two guardians before lifting himself from the oaken throne. 

“Aurelie will decide what to do with them once she awakens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> andevaurshd tír é | may the earth welcome him  
> mál | chief of the tribe  
> Credhenes | “The Heart”, or the volcano that houses en on mil frichtimen  
> en on mil frichtimen | the old god, now deceased  
> Anemhaid | “The Fiery Soul” or where the final battle took place  
> doneigad | wise men/women of the tribe who are either shaman, healers or lorekeepers.
> 
> Let's be honest, no one really liked Ullan and it made sense he would try to earn the favour of the new gods. Too bad Constantin killed him for his greed and cowardice. Aphra and Petrus have come back to New Serene, but not in the way they expected. What will Aurelie do when she sees them again? I have the next three chapters typed up already so expect them soon! I changed the count after having an epiphany about where I wanted to go. Twenty chapters is only a rough estimate at the moment. 
> 
> Please tell me what you think!
> 
> Next chapter is Aurelie's POV.


	3. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie awakens from her slumber...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my awesome beta, Smol Coffee.

**༄ III.**

_The forest was primordial._

_Centuries old trees blotted out the sunlight with their sprawling limbs, bark mottled and splotched with clumpy combs of moss dangling above the larkspur peppered mulchy floor. A pungent tang seemed to ooze from every sentient being in the forest with bewailing sounds ghosting through the trees._

_Whether it was from victim or victor, only the forest could tell._

_It felt nauseating to be here, sickening to her very core._

_Yet Aurelie felt drawn to it._

_Peacefully she glided beneath the ancient canopy of sunset orange leaves, one vast and contorted with sap leaking from above, scoring her fingers when she touched it._

_It was then that she noticed a figure laying behind the tree: a woman close to her age whose pine colored eyes stared blankly out from the verdant foliage. Her mouth was stretched in horror with delicate daffodils sprouting from her lungs._

Siora _._

_Aurelie crouched beside her old friend, trembling hands hovering over her brow. Above them, ghostly horsetails hung like fresh entrails as she choked on a sob, backing away from Siora’s flowering corpse with bitter bile on her tongue._

_There were more bodies of similar decay._

_Petrus, Aphra, Kurt…_

_Vasco._

_They had all paid with their lives for her selfishness._

_She fled through the forest with skirts of milk white lace dancing around her legs, hot tears blinding her as sharp branches sliced at her pale cheeks, drawing blood that was not red but black as Constantin’s had been all those months ago._

_She fell before the largest tree in the forest, a twisted, ghastly thing of oaken bark that stretched high towards the starry sky._

_Carved into the heart was a throne that bore the familiar silhouettes of a man and woman, each crowned with thick branches and sanguine leaves, a solitary moonbeam casting the two figures aglow with ethereal light._

_It was the man that made her heart ache with longing,_

Constantin.

_His pale honey eyes were dazzled with lust, lips pressed to the woman’s mouth as his bloodied fingers duge bruises into her hips that straddled his lap. Scarlet curls arched down her back as she whispered his name, blood drawn from where she gripped his shoulders._

_Mesmerized, Aurelie stumbled towards the massive tree, trembling with some strange jealousy at the view of Constantin with that unknown woman._

Mine.

_“Oh, my lucky star..” Constantin moaned against her lips._

_Aurelie’s jade eyes widened with realization as suddenly the entire forest was engulfed in fire, fiery tendrils licking her heels yet she could not find it in herself to care._

_All around her, horrifying screams echoed as the wild flames devoured all in their path._

_Yet the two remained upon the throne as if nothing else mattered._

_They would gladly burn as long as they were together._

༄

An etching sound lighting dances across the bedroom window is enough to send Aurelie bolting upright in the pitch darkness, her heart desperately trying to claw its way out of her throat. Mind still muddled with sleep, she fights to register the dusk that bleeds into the horizon through the crystalline planes of glass opposite the bed. Transfixed, she watches as the last vestiges of the setting sun disappear with copper hues giving way to dusty purple with the faint glimmer of faraway stars.

Aurelie breathes deeply the faint scent of pine and charcoal that laced the sheets, calming herself and attempting to purge the mysterious vision from her mind. She could not bring herself to dwell upon it for fear that it would awaken the darkness she kept bottled up inside.

A groan breaks the silence and Aurelie nearly jolts from the bed in surprise, her gaze shooting to the slumbering form beside her, his silvery-blonde locks framing a troubled expression.

The last time she had seen his face, they were entangled in one anothers flesh from atop a throne of oak within her dreams. The time before that was when he held her weary body in his arms and promised her the world.

The thought makes her heart ache with sorrow as she lays back down beside him, watching him closely as he slept. He is so beautiful that it nearly breaks her heart. Unable to stop herself she traces faded patterns of green vines that stretch across his jawline with her fingertips. They are warm and pulsing beneath her gentle touch. It takes Aurelie a moment to notice that her own hands bear similar markings, hers light orange swirls that instead ran all the way up her arms. 

_What else has changed?_ she wonders.

Have the tendrils that snaked along her skin buried beneath and penetrated her heart? Has she been exposed to the madness that now haunts her cousins footsteps? 

Constantin’s pale eyelashes flutter open, his features softening upon meeting her gaze, staring up at her with wonder. Her train of thought melts away in his honeyed irises and Aurelie’s breath catches in her throat. Her dainty hands lay upon his chest, body snug against his. 

And for a moment the entire world falls away, leaving only them in the shadows.

She softly bites her bottom lip as she cautiously watches him, but makes no attempt to leave his side. His own gaze darkens as it follows the movement and licks his own luscious lips in response. 

The way he looks at her now is it as if every ounce of breath is taken from her lungs, floating into the air like midnight smoke.

Boldly, she reaches forth to trace his lip lightly with the tip of her finger. It pouts slightly and she has such an urge to kiss it. Swallowing the urge she doesn't wish to look up and find herself at the mercy of his questioning eyes, pleading, begging to know what she is doing. The feeling he gives her is so strange; it stretches throughout her whole body, overwhelming yet it makes her feel oddly complete.

This is not what she felt with Vasco; it tore at her soul and left her bare. It devoured her and delighted in every morsel.

She dare not say it aloud. A part of Aurelie holds back and reminds her that this man is _mad_ , that she left everyone to die because of him. Yet laying here, alone, with him it's as if the dagger he had given her that day is plunged into her own chest.

"Aurelie."

It takes all her strength not to sigh and further curl into him upon hearing his husky vocals.

"Do you regret it?" Constantin asks, his voice a mere whisper as doubt clouds his expression.

"No, Constantin. I do not regret it." She replies without hesitation.

Whether he believes her or not she isn't sure. Yet he does not pry further and instead toys with a loose curl that fell across her slim shoulder. Glancing up at her once more, his expression morphs into boyish wonder.

"You are so beautiful." Constantin murmurs, a rosy blush spreading across his pale cheeks.

"Hmm, then I suppose that I do not resemble some sort of woodland creature?" She teases lightly, grinning down at him.

"You should see for yourself."

Aurelie does just that. With a tinge of regret she removes herself from Constantin's warmth and slips her feet off the bed. She can feel the searing heat of his gaze upon her back as she stands upon her shaky legs and slowly makes her way to a nearby basin of water.

A stranger, a _doneigad_ stares back at her from the crystal liquid.

The birthmark upon her cheek that identified her as _on ol menawi_ has changed hue, it was now tangerine that dances across her fair complexion. Her eyes had remained the same lush jade, yet the most shocking new addition lay atop her head. A crown of branches that resemble white birch trees grows from her scalp and wreathe through her tangle of her red locks.

This is not Aurelie the Legate that stares back at her, but Aurelie the god.

Fingertips suddenly brush against her spinal column and she jumps from the sudden touch. Whipping around she faces Constantin, who now slightly towers above her slight frame. His hands reach forth to caress her jaw, sliding his calloused digits in reverence across the new swirls adorning her face. Ever so tenderly he presses his lips against the mark and Aurelie closes her eyes, leaning into the sensation of his lips upon her skin.

The moment is broken when he steps away and leaves her yearning to be enveloped once again in his warmth. 

“Your aunt arrived two days ago, along with the _mál_ of the _sisaig cnmeis_ tribe. They wished to swear fealty to us.” Constantin told her, not meeting her gaze as he sat on the edge of the canopy bed. 

  
  


Slán. It has been months since she last saw the _doneigad_ . Her clan had pledged themselves to the High King Dunncas and therefore fought to stop Constantin from gaining his godhood in _Credhenes_. Aurelie could not imagine that her dear cou - friend - would show them any mercy. It makes sense that Ullan would immediately rush to the winning side, that slippery snake. She had no doubt that he fled the battle as soon as the tide turned.

“Did you kill them?” She asks, mentally kicking herself for the slight tremble in her voice.

“No. I would not dare harm your last living kin.” Constantin says with earnesty.

“Yet there is more. They must have offered you something valuable.” She replies quickly, wandering around Constantin’s chambers in search of more appropriate clothing. Humming with delight she searches his drawers to find a pair of fit mahogany leggings and one of his white linen tunics. 

“Your aunt offered the life of her _mál_ , as well as two prisoners they captured from the battle at _Credhenes_. Aphra and Petrus.” He responds, brow cocked in amusement as he intently watches her sort through his clothes. 

Aurelie stops dead, almost fearing her heart did the same as she whips around to face him.

“I thought they were all dead.”

“It would seem not, dearest cousin. They are being held in the cellar below the mansion, your aunt guarding them.” 

Chewing her bottom lip in thought, she hides behind the privacy window opposite of the bed. If Petrus and Aphra are alive then there is a distinct possibility that the others are as well. Perhaps even Vasco. It is a rather cruel thought but a small part of her wishes that they did perish at the battle. She is afraid, so terribly afraid to face all her friends once more. They most likely assumed that Constantin had killed her and that she failed. However if anyone knew better then it was Petrus. 

“I wish to see them.” She chokes out, cursing her shaking hands as she pulls on the leather pants. Her heart is pounding so loud and fast against her ribcage that she fears Constantin might hear it. She does not want to needlessly worry him with her fears when it comes to her friends. He has enough on his mind, she knows.

“I left their judgement to you, my lucky star. You are my equal now - a god in your own right.” When Aurelie steps out from behind the window, she can feel Constantin’s burning gaze travel up her form, leaving goosebumps in his wake. The leggings are like a second skin, tight but flexible enough to maneuver in. His tunic is much too large for her even when tucked into the pants. It drapes slightly off her shoulder and reveals the swell of her breasts through the v-cut neck. 

Constantin is appreciative as he takes her in, lips curved in a smile that breaks the emotionless mask he had donned earlier. Aurelie hides her mischievous grin as she walks past him towards the door.

“I may be a god, but I hope that I do not look too ridiculous when I see them.” She says, flashing him a coy grin.

“You will always be beautiful to me.” Constantin murmurs so quietly that she just barely catches the words. 

Speechless, she quickly strides out of the doorway to shield his eyes from the vibrant blush spread across her nose and cheekbones. Walking through the corridors she can hear his footsteps following closely behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> mál | the tribal chief  
> doneigad | shaman, lorekeepers or healers of the tribe
> 
> Will Aurelie be strong enough to face her friends in the next chapter? Stay tuned to find out!
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated. <3


	4. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie confronts Aphra and Petrus...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Smol Coffee for your awesome beta'ing! Chapters 2 and 3 have been updated if you'd like to give those a reread.

** ༄  ** **IV.**

Candlelight flickers ahead of Aurelie and Constantin as they make their way down into the mansion cellar, he her shadow as she passes through dark stone corridors decorated with thorny vines. Gone are the elaborate tapestries that hung from the walls and carefully weaved carpets leading to the cells and in their place grow shade-loving flora of various hues cosied up to the frigid walls, seemingly flourishing in the darkness.

Unease blossoms from within her as brilliantly as the golden roses that tremble in their wake, her anxiety rolling in her gut although she attempts to shake it off. Now is not the time nor place for tears. Today is a day for gallows humor and false confidence.

Her fingers wrap around Constantin's chilled digits. His smile is meant to reassure and give confidence but still somehow manages to give away the worry he means to mask. What could she possibly say when she faced Aphra and Petrus? That she had been mistaken? That when compared to the man she had grown up with, they meant nothing to her? That the Aurelie they knew is dead and lying in _Credhenes_ with a dagger through the heart?

Her train of thought halts upon meeting the pallid visage of her aunt who guards the singular oaken door in the cellar.

Her face is the same structure as her own, same pale skin dusted with freckles but her eyes are a frazil-silver in comparison to Aurelie's jade. She is still slender despite her years, toned and not at all stooped. Her blackened lips split into a forced grin upon noticing her and Aurelie lets go of Constantin's hand as she moves to meet her.

Before she knows it, she is hugging Slán tightly, hot tears dripping from her cheeks on to her leafy armor. So much for false confidence. Her arms encircle around Aurelie, making her briefly forget where she is as she melts into her aunt's embrace.

Slán eventually pulls back from her and gently cups her flush cheeks.  
  
“ _Andevaurshd tír se_ , Aurelie.”   
  


“ _Adlorhedar_ ,” she replies in kind, brushing the streaks of salt from her face. Her aunt stubbornly does not similarly greet or acknowledge Constantin who protectively looms behind her and she can tell he struggles not to take offence. Perhaps she will teach him some words and phrases she had learned from Siora so that he may connect better with the natives. 

“Why did you come here, Slán? Why pledge your allegiance to us?” Aurelie couldn’t help but ask, worry clear upon her face.  
  


“When I felt the death _en on mil frichtimen_ , I wanted to die from sorrow,” she admitted in a thick accent, looking away from her niece's anxious gaze. “He left a gaping hole within me, and that is when I knew that you did not succeed. Yet at the same exact time I was filled with a new presence. Two souls twisted amongst the decayed branches of my god..”

She trails off, glimmers of sadness peeking through the cracks of her mask.

“I knew then that you made your choice, condemning everything you hold dear for your cousin. Corrupted _nádaig_ streamed from the mouth of _Credhenes_ and slaughtered all in their path, not many of the other tribes survived the onslaught.” 

Aurelie chokes on her breath, but remains silent. There is nothing that she can say for her words rung true.

“It was Deidre and Siora who rallied the tribes and fled back towards _Verdhais_.”

Siora survived. 

Regret washes over her like the long slow waves on a shallow beach, each one icy cold and sending shivers down her spine. Callused fingertips brush against her shoulder blade - a silent reminder that Constantin remains just in reach. Aurelie struggles against the urge to whip around and throw herself into his arms - to let him carry her back into his chambers and kiss away the tears that she stubbornly fights against. For now she takes comfort in his touch and listens to her aunt.

"I could not follow," Slán continues, the melancholy buried within her voice shifting into steel; shaking hands clasping around Aurelie's. "You are my sister's child. In spite of your decision, I could not abandon you. Nor will I now. When no others were left, Ullan returned with your friends. He had sensed the shift in power upon Tir Fradi and sought to take advantage of it by worming his way into your good graces. I do not regret his death."

"Thank you, Slán," Aurelie murmurs as her aunt regains her stoic expression. The _doneigad's_ thin lips shift into a tentative smile that does not meet her eyes and nudges her niece softly.

"So is he your _minundhanem_ now?" Slán casually asks, gesturing to Constantin who's attention shifted from the stone walls to stare directly at Aurelie. Amusement and curiosity dances through his pale gold irises as he asks, "a what?"

Aurelie's cheeks are suddenly kissed pink as she looks away shyly, biting her bottom lip and not meeting either of their gazes.

"O-of course not! He is my cousin!" she automatically retorts, willfully ignoring the look of dazed confusion upon Constantin's fair features.

"Not by blood," the _doneigad_ reminds her softly, "but no matter! You are here to see the prisoners and I shall no longer keep you from them."

Aurelie's freckled skin is so alarmingly hot that she fears it may burst into flame as she gives Slán a silent nod and pushes past. Siora is alive and with Deidre, but what of Dunncas? Had he fallen during the attack or does he now lead the Native tribes alongside the _mál_ of _Verdhais_ ? If he lived, she knows that they will need his support in the days to come. Whether he would offer it freely or not remains to be seen. He is a wise man, yet she and Constantin have killed his god and if Deidre leads his armies now.. There would be little hope for peace. The young _mál_ would raze the island to the ground if she could.

Just as she reaches the door, she feels dread pool into her belly once more. With a quick glance to her side, she catches sight of Constantin's lips spread into a reassuring grin. His honeyed eyes flickers between the door and her own irises.

"I will not leave you to face them alone, my lucky star. For you have never left my side when I, too, faced my demons," he reassures Aurelie as his fingers once more intertwine with her own. The low rumble of his voice is comforting as it wraps around her and carries her off to a place where only the two of them exist. She squeaks and then flushes lightly when she realizes that he may be awaiting an answer.

"Thank you." She whispers, squeezing his hand. The chuckle that replies is that soft, rolling thunder that billows across the dark skies on a stormy night.

Pushing past the door, Aurelie gazes upon the two people she never thought she'd lay eyes on again. She takes in their dishevelled appearance, her stomach knotting itself in fear. Aphra still wears her Bridge Alliance jerkin, though now the vibrant green is caked with dried blood and grime. Cuts and bruises decorate her earthy skin as she turns toward Aurelie, expression twisting in disbelief. Petrus looks no better with his tattered silver armor streaked with crimson and there is a distinct limp in his gait as he wanders forth and places a comforting hand upon Aphra's shoulders.

The air is so brittle it could snap, and if it doesn't, Aurelie might. Aphra appears as though she is warring with herself while she casts Constantin accusing glances. Petrus simply stands there behind her trembling frame, his expression that of profound sadness, fatigue engraved on his worn face. His bottom lip quivers, his eyes like glaciers behind the sheen of tears that easily fell. In that moment Aurelie understands the depth of pain that has been sitting below his skin.

"My child, what have you done?" he rasps into the dark, his tone accusatory.

"She became what she sought to destroy." Aphra answers for her, lips curled in a snarl as she pushes Petrus away.

“That is not true.” Aurelie immediately retorts with a frown. “I am the same person you met all those months ago, Aphra. The same person who helped free all your comrades from captivity,” she adds, voice softening. 

“The woman I know would have never sacrificed the lives of every single living soul for her own selfish ambitions!”

Her emotions turn jagged as her insides grow tight. Aphra has never argued with her fists but her words packed a powerful punch. Carefully spoken, without drama, they have an air of finality in them and no matter how hard she would rail against them, nothing would change her mind.

Beside her, Aurelie can feel Constantin's entire body tense as he fights to hold himself back. His cold fury burns with dangerous intensity. She had never worried about his frequent fireworks and showers of red hot sparks before Tir Fradi. It is these bitterly cold, slow burning rages that threaten to engulf them all. He knows that she would never forgive him if he harmed Aphra; she has every right to be angry with Aurelie after all. But Constantin does not fully understand because he has only ever had Aurelie as a companion. His hand feels as though it is on fire as she squeezes it reassuringly, attempting to cool his temper that rapidly climbs with each breath.

Aurelie herself can barely hold it together under Aphra's harsh gaze. It takes everything she's learned from her diplomatic studies to school her visage into an expressionless mask.

"Since I arrived in Tir Fradi I have done nothing but help it's people. The Natives, the Congregation, the Bridge Alliance and even Théléme. Often at the risk of my own life," she replies steadily, struggling to keep the lingering sorrow she felt from clouding her tone. "I helped the Natives develop a delicate peace with the Bridge Alliance even after witnessing the horrific experiments the scientists conducted on them. I spared the Coin Guard even after they planned the slaughter of my cousin."

Every person has their breaking point. At that moment Aurelie is blinded by rage that tastes bitter on her tongue yet is surprisingly satisfying. She knows she should rein it in but she just doesn't have it in herself to stop. Her words crash out unchecked, unaltered.

"I helped every single living soul on this island! So yes, I made a choice. For once I chose the selfish option. I chose not to kill my cousin, the man who has been at my side since the beginning. I chose to believe in him, to keep my promise to him and I have not regretted it for a second."

Both Aphra and Petrus remain as silent as a tomb, yet still the woman in tattered clothes glares at Aurelie with venomous hate and disbelief. In their heads, this is victory already. In their warped logic, her anger means they're right. Aurelie feels the urge to turn away now, turn before she snaps at their wide judgemental stares. But before she can do so, a pair of cold hands clasp her right hand. Glancing up, she is taken by surprise when her jade eyes stare into icy blue pools. The disdain that had furrowed Petrus’ snowy brows melts away as a more thoughtful expression crosses his weathered complexion.

"I may not fully agree with your actions but I understand them, my child." Petrus rasps, a kind and hesitant smile lifting the edges of his mouth. "I, too, made a promise that I cannot abandon. I promised your mother that I would be there for you when you needed me.”

The mention of her mother is enough to quell the righteous fury burning in her belly as she listens, hope blooming in her chest.

“We abandoned you when you needed us most. We let you face your cousin alone, all knowing of the terrible decision you had to make,” he murmurs, the smallest of trembles in his voice. Aphra opens her mouth to offer a retort but the old sage quickly silences her with a glare. “It is us who failed you and I promise not to fail you again.” 

A sob leaves Aurelie's throat as she throws her arms around the man who is the closest thing she has to a father. She can feel the sharp edge of his silvery gorget digging into her ribs as he pulls her against him and weeps into her mess of scarlet curls. After a few minutes of holding one another, Petrus releases her from his grasp and she resumes her position next to Constantin. He had remained silent during the entire exchange and that both suprises and worries her. 

“Aphra,” Aurelie addresses the woman who seethes in the corner, her eyes almost black with rage. “We will not imprison or execute you for simply being here. You may stay or leave, the choice is yours.” 

“I will leave. There is nothing for me here,” Aphra mutters bitterly.

“Very well. I advise that you depart Tir Fradi. Nature has taken back its home and there shall be no more colonists to poison it.” 

The Bridge Alliance scout barely acknowledges her words as she roughly shoulders past Constantin and Aurelie. Watching her leave, an aching sadness returns to her chest before focusing on Petrus once again and she allows a watery smile to climb to her lips.

“Come, father. We have much to do.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> mál | chief of the tribe  
> andevaurshd tír se | “may the earth welcome her”  
> adlorhedar | “thank you”  
> nádaig | guardians of Tir Fradi  
> minundhanem | soulmate or spouse (“one who shares my mind”)  
> Vederhais | Deidre and Siora’s village
> 
> So far I have up to chapter 7 completed with chapters 5, 6 and 7 awaiting editing. In the next chapter Constantin gives Aurelie a gift...
> 
> Kudos and comments are food for the soul<3


	5. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constantin surprises De Sardet with a gift...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Smol Coffee for beta'ing this chapter!

** ༄ ** **V.**

"Constantin, where are you taking me?"

"You will see soon, dearest cousin." He assures her softly and a small, curious smile plays on her lips in response.

Her cheeks feel warm against his palms as he leads her through the woods, shielding her eyes from the early autumn leaves, a frosty chill in the air yet Constantin feels almost unbearably hot with Aurelie's spine so close to him, her wild scarlet curls tickling the sharp curve of his chin, the scent of lilacs and honey filling his senses. Blood-red leaves from the towering oak trees lay scattered upon the forest floor, their boots crunching the delicate foliage, pushing the papery remains deep into the soft soil.

As he guided her down a shallow slope, he came upon his destination: a small glade nestled in the depths of the forest, laying out in a steep sunken clearing with a perfect ring of white mushrooms in the centre, gleaming like gold in the sun. A myriad of flowers bloomed despite the cold air; vibrant hues of pansies, daffodils, bluebells and lavender.

The shadows ease and at the edge of the glade Constantin finally removes his hands from Aurelie. Quietly, he studies her expressions as long lashes open and she is at last able to see his surprise.

Almost immediately her jade eyes grow wide with wonder, rosy lips stretching into the most brilliant of smiles.

"What is this place?" She asks breathlessly, already slipping her toes from the burgundy boots she wore and planting them into the mushy soil.

When they were children, Aurelie had suffered the most under his mother's scrutiny. In an effort to shield him from his mother's harsh words and near-constant manipulations, his cousin had borne the brunt of it.

She is a lady and therefore must act like it. No self respectable gentleman would marry a wild girl who plays at sword fighting, Lady d'Orsay had said. While his father forced him to endure endless political parties and balls where he did nothing but berate his own son, his mother was much crueler. She was the one who taught Aurelie how to be a lady of the court and successfully attract the eye of potential suitors. Lady d'Orsay paraded her around and spoke of nothing but Aurelie's impeccable breeding and prized womb to the gentlemen that expressed interest. When it became too much his cousin would grab Constantin's hand and hide away in the royal gardens with him. She loved it there. His mother would hardly set foot among the carefully trimmed flowers, but Aurelie thrived amongst nature. The garden became their one and only solace from the prying eyes of others while at court.

Which is why the day before she bound herself to him, he had created this place especially for her.

A place that she can be free.

"I created it solely for you, with the hopes that you would come here when you need time alone," 

he reveals with a hesitant grin, his pale complexion flush with embarrassment. There is a glimmer of his boyhood, of the man he once was glimmering beneath as she nearly leaps into his arms and places a small kiss on his scarred cheek.

"Oh, thank you, Constantin! This is a gift I shall cherish. However.. I do not think it should be mine alone. It can be _our_ place," she replies shyly and Constantin suppresses the sudden urge to press his lips against hers in that moment. Instead he watches on as Aurelie bolts from his side and into the vast glade, the hem of her pale dress fluttering in her wake.

The entire island is now theirs by right but this tiny glade will become their hideaway. A place to weather the storms against the outer world. A place Constantin created with the use of his newfound godly abilities so that he may hide away his precious cousin and bask in her light.

Wrapped in a cloak growing with the creeping shadows of autumn daylight, Constantin watches her from the outer edges of the meadow. The trees that surround the little paradise are burning with bonfire-reds and sunflame-gold as she twirls barefoot amongst the fluttering leaves. Her a wide, radiant grin as she closes her eyes and loses herself to the wind music of trees. Their gentle creaking and whispering leaves unable to overcome the thunderous and rapid beating of his own heart.

Desire for Aurelie is nothing new to Constantin. When they were children, his desire for her had been innocent and possessive, as they only had each other to rely on within the dark walls of the palace. His physical affections towards her were often reprimanded later by his mother, yet he cared little. His cousin was his alone. Slowly that desire grew to become more complex as they bloomed into adults and she entered womanhood. It was no longer appropriate to whisk her away from a ballroom in his arms, nor hold her hand when his father mercilessly beat him down. 

However after the effects of the Malichor and Catasach's treatment, his desire twisted into something dark and insatiable. He now _yearns_ to touch her, to hold her with every breath and fibre of his being. Even though he knows he is not worthy of even the slightest caress of her slender fingers, nor adoring glances she casts his way. Aurelie is his star that guides him through the shadows, who will never betray him even at the cost of her own life. To his shame, he cannot help but want to possess her and hide her away so that no one but he may lay eyes upon her. She is so delicate after all, in spite of being the strongest person he knows. Had she chosen to side with _en on mil frichtimen_ , he would have gladly ripped out his own beating heart and placed it in her trembling hands. A life without Aurelie's brilliance is no life worth living.

The sound of her laughter, bright and cheerful like dandelions in summer days, blossomed upon the peaceful glade and broke Constantin out of his reverie. She approaches slowly and extends her open palm towards him, her face flush with glee and scarlet tendrils tangled in the birch crown atop her head.

"Dance with me Constantin!" she invites him, her words alone enough to spark a fire in his chest.

"Perhaps you will have the courtesy not to trample upon my feet this time," he teases gently.

Constantin places his hand in hers and escorts her back into the clearing. His fingers brush against her lower back as he pulls her close against him and falls into a familiar rhythm that carries their bodies across the glade. Crystal dewdrops upon the petals of flowers twinkle in the sunlight with every step as he spins Aurelie in delicate circles, her pale dress billowing. He used to love dancing with her; the pressure of his warm hand on her back and admiring the way her small agile feet glide along the forest floor.

Her carefree laughter chimes in the air as she peers up at him through thick lashes and Constantin nearly forgets the steps as he loses himself in her wide, jade pools. He can feel delight and laughter burning in his own lungs as he twirls her, watching her spin gracefully to the point it takes his breath away. All the anguish of the past few days melt like snow about them, a blessed relief from all the heartache and confusion they have both endured.

After a few more moments of twirling among the autumn hues and quivering flowers, they collapse side by side upon the buoyant, emerald grass and auburn leaves.

"Thank you, Constantin..." she murmurs next to him, fingers still intertwined with his as they fight to catch their breath.

"My only wish in this life is to see you happy, dear cou-" He stops himself. Somehow it felt wrong to refer to her as his cousin in this setting, as if it would remind them of a past that was filled with lies and darkness. She no longer requires the protection of such a title, and perhaps it would be less confusing to simply call her Aurelie. His dearest friend.

"It is not my happiness that worries me, " she admits with a frown. "It is yours."

Constantin turns to gaze up at her, feeling the oaken branches of his crown digging into the soft soil while doing so. He can feel his heart constrict in his chest and his breath leaves him upon seeing her lay there at his side. She cares little for the dirt and grass stains smear across her lavender gown as she lay upon her belly, chin resting against her palm and petite body nestled into his side.

He has never before considered his own happiness or wants. He was constantly told by his father that he should only care about his people and their happiness. Constantin's mother on the other hand only spoke of family duty and to stop indulging in selfish whims. His own happiness was never seen as a necessity, not by him nor his own kin.

"I fear happiness may not be in the cards for me, my lucky star," he sighs, his heart throbbing from the mere thought.

"Then why drain _En on mil frichtimen_? Why condemn all those souls to the Malichor? Why burn Tir Fradi to ash so that you may build it anew?"

"For you," Constantin whispers, the words of that fateful day returning. "For us. We have both sacrificed so much for naught. We have both given our very souls to the people who couldn't care less about us, who continue to fight their wars and kill without mercy."

Aurelie nods, though a sliver of unease flits across her eyes. "I.. I feel the same. At first I was confused and uncertain while in _Credhenes_. But after talking to Aphra and Petrus... I understand now and I wish to help you."

"May I..ask you something personal, Aurelie?" Constantin tentatively asks, stroking his thumb over her freckled knuckles.

"You have never failed not to do so before, dearest friend. Ask what you wish."

"Do you still think of that Naut Captain?" In truth, that question has long been on his mind yet fear restrained him from asking. He does not know if his heart could survive if her own belongs to another. He distantly remembers seeing them together, affectionately touching and kissing when they thought none were watching. Constantin had only chanced upon them, yet the sight left him hollow and aching. More so than what the Malichor was already doing to his rotted flesh and brittle bones at the time. Watching them from the shadows, he had felt as though Aurelie herself had plunged a dagger into his chest and left him writhing in a pool of his own blood.

Her expression darkens somewhat as she contemplates the answer, pursing her lips in thought.

"Yes, but not in the way I would have expected. He is either a corpse lost among the fallen in _Anemhaid_ , or wandering the woods in search of me. I would be lying if I said I do not feel guilt over his fate. He offered me comfort and love that I had so desperately craved when I first arrived in New Serene." Her tone lowers into a breathless whisper that Constantin strains to hear, the beginnings of tears sparkling at the corner of her eyes. "I had thought I loved him, as I know he did me. Yet as time passed and the final battle drew ever closer, it was not he who I worried for.. but you. It was then that I realized the affection I felt was no more than just that... affection. It is cruel of me to admit such things, I know."

"Not at all, fair Aurelie. He is not worthy of the guilt you feel, none are." Constantin assures carefully, knowing that he deserves it least of all.

Her brows crease in worry and he suddenly fears he may have said too much. He has been no more obvious in his affections than before, and now he is suddenly concerned he should have left that last part out. Her expression is fleeting however and she lays her head gently upon the azure blue silk covering his chest, her thin branches slightly digging into his skin. 

Constantin is left staring up at the sky instead of her lovely features, the pure, uninterrupted blue stretches seamlessly across his field of vision.

"I assume that we cannot stay in New Serene forever..." Aurelie trails off, sighing wistfully against him.

"Hikmet and San Matteus are still occupied by Theleme, the Bridge Alliance and whatever is left of the Congregation. I fear that if we leave them too long, they may regroup or call for reinforcements. No, my darling Aurelie.. we cannot stay." No matter how much he deeply desires to.

"Then I suppose we will be continuing our assault upon their cities. Where will we be heading off to first?"

"Hikmet. Their military strength is significantly less than San Matteus but..." He trails off, the tips of his ears and scarred cheeks growing hot as she shifts to rest her chin against his ribs, peering up at him with those beautiful eyes of hers that glimmer with understanding and sorrow.

"I understand. Other than Aphra, I hold no love for the Bridge Alliance, their governor or their scientists. I cannot forgive them for treating you like an experiment and nearly assassinating you, nor their horrific acts against the natives. Theleme can wait." She whispers into his tunic, sounding forlorn yet determined. "We should leave on the morrow, if you agree."

Constantin gives a weak nod in response, brushing a strand of scarlet hair away from her face. The way she gazes at him now sends his heart into a frenzy, his skin growing overwhelming hot beneath hers. The beat of the organ within his chest is so thunderous that he fears she may hear it as he drinks in the feel of her shape moulding into his.

Desperate to change the topic, he asks the first question that pops into his mind.

"Your aunt asked you something in the native tongue earlier... what was it again.. It sounded like _minundhanem_."

It is Aurelie's turn to become flustered as her head shoots up from his chest and she fixes him with her wide, jade eyes. She appears to be debating over an answer as she glances away from him, mindlessly fiddling with the laces of his tunic. Her melodic vocals bear a slight tremble as she carefully answers, seemingly desperate to look anywhere but his face.

"It is hard to explain in the common tongue.. but it roughly translates to 'one who shares my mind'. It is the natives version of a soulmate or spouse. I-I told her she was wrong of course." She stammers half-heartedly, the red flush of her cheeks growing brighter by the second.

Upon seeing her so delightfully embarrassed, something within Constantin just.. breaks. The longing to touch her, to hold her overwhelms him as he reaches out to grip her bare shoulders and brushes his lips against hers, letting the world fall away. Their kiss is slow and soft, comforting in ways that words could never be. His hand moves to rest below her ear, thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingle. The calloused fingertips of his right hand gently run up and down her spine, coaxing shivers from Aurelie, the softest sound escaping against his lips. Liquid heat fills his veins and Constantin deepens their kiss, which grows more desperate and hungry with each passing moment. It takes what willpower he has left not to flip her on her back and give into the fiery hunger that consumes him and taste every inch of her soft flesh.

Her thighs brush against his hips as she moves to straddle him, allowing him to sit up and encircle her with his arms. Drowning in one another, the two fail to notice a shadow spreading across their entangled forms until an ear-splitting roar echoes throughout the glade and they both freeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> En on mil frichtimen | the former god of Tir Fradi  
> Credhenes | “The Fiery Heart” the inner sanctum of Anemhaid  
> Anemhaid | where the final battle to stop Constantin took place
> 
> I know, I'm a terrible person for leaving you with a cliffhanger. This chapter was created to allow De Sardet and Constantin to have an overdue conversation and gain some peace before the storm. Things will be picking up from now on! Also yes, I pushed the chapter count. After outlining the next thirteen chapters I realized I wasn't even halfway through the story... 30 is only another rough estimate.
> 
> Next chapter is Siora's POV.
> 
> Comments and kudos help me write faster! <3


	6. Anemhaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siora awakens to find herself in a nightmare...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Smol Coffee for getting to this chapter early!  
> Be warned, there are graphic depictions of violence and gore in this chapter.

** **

**༄ VI. **

Four days earlier…

The clangor of swords had died away, the shouting of the slaughter was hushed; silence lay on the blood-stained battlements of _Anemhaid_ . The pale bleak sun that glittered so blindingly from the obsidian fields struck sheens of amber from a rent corselet and broken blade, where the dead lay in heaps. The nerveless hand yet gripped the broken hilt: helmeted heads, back drawn in the death throes, painted, blood-streaked faces tilted grimly upward, as if in a last invocation to _En on mil frichtimen._

Siora lay on the ground, her face closed in a grimace, lightly tanned skin ashen and clammy. Slowly she attempted to get up but quickly she realized how futile it was when she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. Sharp pain lanced through her head and colourful spots flashed before her eyes, it felt like her whole body had been beaten and every movement caused some muscle or bone to ache. 

The volcanic stone beneath Siora's trembling hands glistened like rain had fallen, though the liquid that shone wasn't clear but a dark shade of red. Peering downwards she saw a deep wound was sliced in the flesh of her abdomen. It heavily oozed out ribbons of blood and there was a bluish-purple bruise that formed around it. She lightly pressed her index finger against the center of the cut and sucked in a sharp breath as the pain spirals across her body. Colorful spots contoured the sides of her vision and she struggled against the urge to scream.

Beguiling, bewitching yet extraordinarily peculiar. This undertaking seemed quite convincing and genuine at first. She, along with those of her tribe and the rest of the Alliance knew they had to stop Constantin at all costs, else all would be lost. But as time had progressed the mission had begun to unfold its treacherous, vile wings. The obligation and responsibility the _doneigad_ had possessed, moreover the trust and confidence she had was shattered like shards of glass in wake of the dead and dying scattered around her. Broken and unfilled. Siora was filled with intense horror and disgust to see the writhing forms of her tribemates, begging for mercy beneath the cloud of ash.

Bitter tears trailed down Siora's mud-stained cheeks as she felt another wave of pain drown out her cries. She, along with the others, had felt the death of _En on mil frichtimen_ like a spear through the heart. Amid the battle against Constantin's vile creatures, the _doneigad_ had fallen to her knees in grief upon realizing that she had failed, that Aurelie had failed. A corrupted _Nadaíg Frasamen_ took advantage of her agony at that moment and delivered a strong blow to the side of her head, knocking her unconscious.

Lying there in the muck and glistening entrails of those she knew, Siora wondered how her other companions faired. Not much better than she, perhaps. She choked on a sob as her thoughts once again wandered to Aurelie and her bright, jade irises that always lit up when Siora would offer to teach her _Yetch Fradi._ She had taken to the language with a zeal that Siora had always admired and often spoke of spending more time with the other tribes, to delve deeper into their culture.

Such things were not to be however. Aurelie most likely laid dead beneath the corpse-white tree of her god, stabbed to death by her own cousin

Wincing in pain, she started to grab the slippery rocks for purchase to help pull herself away from the mound of rotted bodies she lay beside, careful not to glance at them lest she fall back into a bone weary sorrow. But for one second, one mere second she just happened to look down and her mouth stretched in a silent scream upon seeing the body of someone she knew. Searing fiery bursts pulsated around the wound, intensifying with each movement her body made, jarring and brutal. The _doneigad_ clutched her side in agony, the pain amplified and bloody muscle quivered as her consciousness ebbed. Yet she fought to stay awake, to carry herself from this horrific battlefield. Sobs wracked her shivering, blood-soaked frame yet she recklessly started crawling forwards again, only for her hand to collide upon a piece of glass. She hissed in pain and that was when it noticed her.

Through the darkness came the glow of two sun-yellow eyes, like sallow lamplight eight feet off the ground. It moved with a slight sway, as if the unseen body cloaked in ash prowled like a big cat. Siora halted. The eyes did not, with rapid acceleration and a more bounding motion the _Nadaíg Frasamen_ thundered right up to her. In less than two seconds she was on her back once more, pitifully gasping for air.

Staring into the deep inky pools of the _Nadaíg_ , Siora felt no fear but rather pity instead. It was once a beautiful creature, a child of the god she was raised to believe was all powerful. Constantin's vile greed had stripped away the pure soul that used to inhabit its nature-born visage and replaced it with a piece of his own, dark and festered heart. Curse the fool for enslaving a beast that was created to protect her people on the island. The only way to describe the _Nadaíg_ now is that it was the bipedal complete absence of light. It was not just blackness, but nothing at all. Only the faintest shape of the massive antlers that once adorned its head gave any indication as to the type of guardian it was.

Siora's emerald hued eyes fluttered closed and she slowed her breath, awaiting its inevitable strike. She would rather die by this tormented creature than Constantin's own hand.

Yet fate had other plans.

A masculine voice called out for her and the piercing echo of a sword clanging against mottled bark forced her to reopen her bleary eyes. A honey brown gaze stares back at her and the _doneigad_ nearly cries with relief.

Vasco.

"What are you still doing here Siora?!" The Naut commander yelled at her, tattooed face contorted in a grimace. His bloodied knuckles were white as he gripped the curved hilt of his sword and they trembled with effort from having deflected the _Nadaíg's_ initial attack.

Siora was given no time to respond when the creature released a bellowing roar and reared its massive head before it swiped at Vasco with barrel-thick antlers. While less nimble than usual, he quickly stepped to the side and let the bark of its horns collide with the obsidian and splinter against the stone, which sent wooden shards flying in every direction. It released a shrill cry from its lungs as Vasco took advantage of its momentary agony and speared the tip of his blade straight through the _Nadaíg's_ shadow-infested back, piercing the black stained heart within. With one last mighty bellow it sank to its knees before Siora and suddenly stilled.

Clutching her abdomen, she felt heat ooze between her bruised fingers as she watched Vasco pull his blade from the wooden carcass and slide it back into the scabbard at his side. The Naut did not spare his fallen foe a glance as he knelt beside Siora and carefully surveyed her wounds. The ponytail that used to pull back his dirty blond hair is ragged, loose strands falling over his tattooed complexion that was contorted with exhaustion. His hand was shaking as he removed her own sticky fingers from the ever bleeding wound and replaced it with a scrap of cloth that had been dangling from his torn coat.

"W..where..." Siora groaned while she fought to keep the darkness that crept along the edge of her sight from spilling into her vision completely. "Where is... Aurelie?"

Vasco's movements halted and his gaze quickly snapped to study the mud that caked between his fingers, lips stretched into a frown and face ashen.

"I have not seen her since she pursued Constantin into that damnable volcano. But I fear..." He choked on the words, unable to meet Siora's questioning eyes.

"I thought so too but.. she cannot be dead. You know her better than any of us, you know that she has survived much worse.." The words sound hollow even to her own ears. Everyone knew that Aurelie's one weakness was her cousin and he could have easily taken advantage of that fact. Any other possibility was simply unfathomable.

"When the sheer number of corrupted creatures escalated, Petrus and Aphra went into _Credhenes_ to look for Aurelie. They have not returned." Vasco murmured as he positioned himself to gather Siora in his arms. "It is safe to assume that they are dead now and I cannot look for Aurelie myself. Constantin has won and I have a duty to guide the Nauts to safety. Perhaps we shall find it in San Matteus."

"What of Kurt?" Siora asked and flinched as he raised her broken body off the ground.

The air was hot and stale, it burned her lungs like the fumes from brimstone. The grotesque obsidian plateau belched up constant waves of foul and rancid odours that smelled like sickly excrement and Siora struggled against the urge to vomit all over him.

"I stumbled across him fighting against two _Nadaíg_. If he survived then he should be helping Hikhmet prepare for a possible seige. We do not know where Constantin will strike next."

"Vasco.." Her voice was a mere whisper as her emerald eyes welled up and hot salt streaked down her dirtied face, lips trembling. "What if against all the odds, she survived?"

The Naut commander didn’t even glance down as he carried her through the grotesque scenery ripe with the bodies of their fallen comrades. Perhaps fatigue and delirium had finally caught up with her for she thought she spied the familiar face of Eseld, eyes filled with mixed relief and worry. Her sister's hands were soft against her brow as she snarled something up at Vasco that Siora couldn't quite catch. The Naut grudgingly placed her in the arms of a nearby warrior of her clan and turned to leave but Siora reached out and caught his wrist.

"The only possible way Aurelie could have survived was if she betrayed us and she would rather slit her own wrists than do so. No, Siora. Aurelie De Sardet is dead."

With those parting words, he shook her off, turned and walked away from her towards the bluish banners of the Nauts.

Siora never felt so torn as she watched him leave, knowing that he was right. With a heavy heart she quickly fell into unconsciousness, allowing the ink-black wave to consume her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> nadaíg Frasamen | forest guardians  
> doneigad | healers, shaman or lorekeepers of the tribe
> 
> A little short, but now we see an outsiders view of the aftermath. Siora will be an important figure in future chapters. 
> 
> I love kudos and comments like anyone! Please, tell me what you think.


	7. Motives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie and Constantin prepare for war...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not beta'd as my current beta is busy with the ongoing crisis, so please forgive any mistakes!

**༄** **VII.**

When they were in the meadow, wrapped within each other's warmth they had been so utterly absorbed in one anothers taste and touch, unaware of the danger that loomed a mere ten yards away. They both leapt apart in shock when they heard a fearsome roar and turned to see an _Andríg_ charge towards them. Constantin regained his wits more quickly than she and summoned vines from the damp soil in an effort to restrain the violent beast. As Aurelie knelt in the vibrant wild flowers, she was blown away by the sheer size of the _Andríg_ . It was the largest she had ever seen in her travels - its back stood level with the top of her head. Not even the _Andríg Herd Chief_ had been as large, nor as ferocious. It mercilessly ripped through Constantin's vines using brute strength and continued to charge at a rather stupefied Aurelie. It was not until Constantin stretched out his hand in an attempt to corrupt and pacify the beast that she snapped out of her hazy thoughts.

"Stop! Let me handle this!" She called out to him, who hesitated in lowering his palm and cast her a curious glance. Aurelie, as uncertain as he, stepped directly between him and the animal, curling her toes into the cool dirt as if to draw courage from the earth. The _Andríg_ was mere seconds away from mauling them to death and she stood her ground, matching its menacing glare with her own ferocity, baring her teeth at the beast. It snorted and reared its thick horns when it came close enough, as if to strike her... but even as Aurelie prepared herself for the blow, it never came. It abruptly halted and stood but a few inches away from her, massive chest heaving as it watched her through eyes of abyssal black. She felt worry radiating off Constantin who stood behind her as she reached out to brush her trembling fingers against the _Andríg's_ scaley snout, which flinched beneath the sudden touch. Yet it did not attack and Aurelie moved closer to rest her forehead against the rough column of bone that stretched from its nose to its curved horns. She closed her eyes and it did the same as its breath slowed.

For a few moments they stood still as statues while the former legate attempted to calm the mighty beast with peaceful thoughts and feelings she directed into its mind. Distantly she felt an icy sensation crawl through her veins and seep through the tips of her fingers into the _Andríg_ but did not open her eyes until she felt Constantin's hand come to rest upon her shoulder. She gasped in shock and disbelief from what she now saw. The beast's scaley hide was replaced by a striking bone-white, its mane the hue of pure moonlight. Tiny stars speckled its wide flank, which was no longer solid but translucent and appeared similar to a starry sky. Tendrils of ghostly white smoke danced about the _Andríg's_ massive frame, while its eyes gained a jade-green pigment that glowed in the sunlight.

"How did I..." She began as Constantin fell in beside her and stared at her with unrestrained awe.

"Do you not see?" His words were a breathless whisper, tinged with an emotion Aurelie could not quite place. "You are like me, though a bit different. The creatures I control are beasts of shadow and night, reflections of my own impurity. But you..."

His calloused hands move to cup her cheeks and she can feel his warmth bleed into her skin from the contact. "You are pure, you are light. The beasts you bring to your side reflect your soul, Aurelie, as mine do. You are... magnificent."

༄

Since the events in the meadow, her _Andríg_ whom she’d named _Anem_ \- meaning ‘soul’ in _Yetch Fradí_ \- never left her side. When she and Constantin returned to the palace in New Sérène, members of _sisaig cnameis_ clan were in awe of the great beast. Even her aunt bore an expression of pure wonder as she approached Aurelie and took her hands in hers, bowing her head in reverence while offering prayers in the native tongue. She was uncomfortable with the display at first, yet as she returned to Constantin's side and noticed adoration sparkle in his sunlit gaze, she felt nothing but warmth course through her body.

Shortly after that she, Constantin, Petrus, Slán, the warriors of _sisaig cnameis_ and Constantin's corrupted beasts departed the port city and began their march towards the Region of Hikmet.

Three days have passed since then and Constantin still intently watches her. As though she is a strange thing, a specimen of a colorful insect he has never before laid eyes upon and found, though odd, also intriguing. Feeling her cheeks heat up beneath his gaze, he abruptly turns and heads to the front of the line.

Watching him push through the throng of beasts and clan members alike, Aurelie cannot help but feel a slight twinge of pain in her heart. They have not spoken about the kiss they shared in the meadow and she has been either too busy or self-conscious to pursue the topic. What would she say in the first place? _Tell him how you feel_. A nagging voice calls in the back of her mind and she anxiously pushes the thought aside. Alas, the memory of his heated lips brushing against hers, the look of wonderment in his hooded gaze is forever seared into her soul.

Petrus' silver-white gorget glints in the dappled sunlight as they walk side by side through the thick underbrush, the hulking frame of _Anem_ towering behind her. Her own assemblage consists of a mahogany leather corselet that starts from her upper ribs and ends in a sharp V-cut at her hips. A loose jerkin of lush amethyst with billowy, gold-embroidered sleeves is tucked into the top of the corselet, enhancing the slight curve of her breasts. Tight ebony leather pants are tucked into a pair of Aurelie's favourite travel boots, which are an earth brown. Her unruly scarlet curls are fastened in a severe braid that travels down between her shoulder blades, while her light flamberge rests at her hip.

Already Aurelie can see structures peek out from between the trees splashed in golden and burnished orange light, leaves set yellow flame where the brilliance turns them transparent but for their dark veins. At first, the former legate can make out only a house or cabin set upon a foundation of stone, its eaves hanging out over a porch three steps up from the dirt path. Then behind that, she spots a barn and a second, smaller structure as well, still half-hidden from view. Beyond the layer of vibrant autumn foliage and treeline they would arrive at the first Bridge Alliance encampment, just roughly a days travel of the city of Hikmet.

"We make preparations here!" Constantin's voice echoes through the trees from three yards ahead of her, and the entire army comes to an abrupt halt from the words.

Petrus turns to her then, a ghost of a smile upon his lips. "Whatever should transpire from now on, remember what I have taught you, my child." He says, rather cryptically before turning around and joining Slán who is shouting out orders to her clan.

Aurelie isn't given time to ponder his words as she catches movement against the blinding sunset backdrop. Bodies, tall and broad, slip through the shadows like wraiths. A shudder ripples down her spine, though as Constantin approaches her he appears unperturbed from the movement and makes no move to reach for the intricately carved pistol that hangs from his hip. The shadows circle as she feels _Anem_ stop behind her and are drawn forth from their hidden work by the sound of its low, guttural grunts that echo through the lazy evening glow of the forest. Then, faintly over the quiet chatter of nearby natives, she can hear voices.

"It would seem we have guests, my lucky star." Constantin murmurs to her as he takes his place at her side, golden-cast gorget shining with the faint rays of dusk. He wears a similar outfit to the one he wore in the Final Battle, though instead of azure his coat is a rich, velvet-purple adorned with gold embroidery similar to her own. It is as much a fashion choice as it is a show of solidarity that their clothes and armor matched in hue, Constantin had leant her one of his own jerkins that was in similar style for her to wear. She enjoys the silky feel of it upon her freckled skin, as if it is his own arms that are wrapped around her.

Aurelie stiffens as the shadows emerge from the verdant foliage and struggles to keep her expression neutral as a familiar pair of silver-blue eyes meet hers.

"Ah, Green Blood! I see now that Aphra spoke the truth when she reported that you'd survived the battle!" Kurt's voice is filled with mirth, yet a glimmer of pain and rage flits across his grisled complexion. He wears the typical customary armor of the Coin Guard, though not in as pristine condition as before. Dents marr the once flawless metallic surface, along with a few streaks of dried blood and dirt.

She can feel Constantin's body grow rigid from where he stands beside her, lips drawn in a slightest snarl as he fights to contain his rage.

"I am glad to see you alive, Kurt." Aurelie replies with a tight smile. "I.. am sorry about what happened. It was not my intention to join Constantin but I do not regret my decision."

"A'ye, it would seem so. That is a rather fancy crown atop your head ain't it? Men have killed for less to gain the power of a god. You on the other hand condemned three nations to an eternity of war, famine and incurable plague. Well done, Green Blood!" There is an edge in his tone that gnaws at her heart as he speaks.

"Tell us why you have come, Kurt." Constantin growls before Aurelie could lose the reins on her boiling temper. From behind the captain, two dark-skinned Bridge Alliance scouts emerge in matching pine-green outfits. They watch Aurelie and Constantin with barely concealed disgust as they lay their palms on the hilts of their swords, ready to retaliate should she or Constantin strike. Kurt on the other hand looks as though he is bored from the entire conversation, but his piercing gaze never once leaves Aurelie's petite form.

"Governor Burhan has sent me to offer a parlay, as I am the most unlikely to be murdered by you two. It is his wish that you offer terms so that you and he may come to a peaceful agreement without bloodshed. He expects to see you both just outside the city gates tomorrow at dawn." Kurt says with a slight shrug, yet she can detect a faint sense of unease about his posture. Constantin seems to notice this too as one of his fingertips delicately strokes her knuckles and he grudgingly considers his words.

Aurelie is unable to hold back any longer as she takes a step towards her former master, the tangerine swirls that decorate her skin glowing with the festering rage she feels eating her up inside.

"You would dare become a _dog_ of the Governor? After the horrid experiments you witnessed the Bridge Alliance conduct? After its lead scientist confessed to using Constantin as a control study and purposely infecting him with the Malichor?" She spits, venom burning in her words.

Kurt merely shrugs, a glimmer of shame glinting beneath the mask of pain his face hides behind. He is visibly shaking beneath his armor, having forgone his uncaring demeanor.

"They paid good coin." Was all he could bite out as he turned his gaze onto Constantin, awaiting his answer.

"Very well. We shall meet with Governor Burhan." He replies cooly, face impassive though Aurelie could sense the black cloud of anger engulfing him as it does her.

"I will tell the Governor." Kurt mutters, no longer able to meet their penetrating stares as he spins on his heel, the Bridge Alliance scouts exiting into the underbrush ahead of him. Yet before he leaves, he casts a regretful look over his shoulder at the two newly minted gods and offers parting words that leave her cold.

"I did not believe her at first but Aphra spoke the truth when she said you are as mad as Constantin. You are truly lost, Aurelie. Vasco would be heartbroken if he saw you now."

“You know nothing Kurt.” She snaps back at him and notices a slight hesitation in his step before he too disappears into the shadows of the forest.

A weary sigh leaves Constantin and Aurelie turns to gaze at him in concern. Shadows are cast upon his features that leave him demonic and wild, a wraith with eyes like miniature suns that burn. Around them, the clan warriors feign ignorance to the events that transpired and continue about their work of unloading supplies and setting up camp. Beneath the surface of her skin, she can feel the rage within her slowly melt away like autumn snow as she takes her friends pale hands in hers and studies his flickering expression.

“We do not have to go if that is your wish,” she says cautiously. His fingers are startlingly hot as he relaxes into her comforting touch and pulls her closer to rest his forehead against hers. She can feel the conflict brew within him yet Aurelie’s eyes flutter closed as his own do, her heart throbbing from the close vicinity. Briefly she ponders the intention behind the Governor's invitation to parley. It is almost certainly a trap, especially if Aphra is at his side. Were they to reject him then they would immediately have to begin a siege against Hikmet’s stone walls, which may last but a mere few days. While the wall itself is heavily fortified, even it could not withstand the combined might of legions of corrupted animals, _nadaíg_ , clansmen and Constantin’s much deserved need for vengeance. He would rip the city asunder in his wrath and slaughter all those who dwelled within, perhaps even the civilians if they have not been evacuated already. Aurelie would much rather not have that much blood on her hands, yet she knows there is ought she could do it if it came to it. Perhaps if they could reach an understanding or accord, she could convince the Governor and the Bridge Alliance to depart from Tir Fradi. Even if Governor Burhan has arranged a trap she has to at least try to limit the bloodshed. 

“We shall meet with him.” Constantin interrupts her thoughts and breaks the silence between them, breath softly tickling the tip of her nose. There is a slight hesitation as he pulls away from her warmth, through not before gently placing a kiss between her furrowed brows. 

“Indeed that is wise, your Highness,” the familiar voice of Petrus rasps behind her and Aurelie whirls around to see the Thélème priest watching them with lips spread in a fond smile. Slán is at his side, her painted face impassive as ever. Though she knows her aunt well enough to assume she does not approve of the idea.

“While I doubt the intentions of Governor Burhan are honorable," he continues, "you may be able to convince him to leave the continent peacefully. If not then it is always prudent to gauge the strength of one's enemy before a battle is commenced.”

Glancing at Constantin, she is surprised to see him slowly nod from the old man’s words. “Quite right. It will still take some hours to travel to Hikmet however. I fear we may miss dawn if we do not depart soon.”

“Why not ride _Anem_ to the _renaigse_ city?” Slán replies quickly, her pine green eyes wandering over to the hulking _Andríg_ who stood grazing a few feet away from Aurelie. The stark white scales and mane of the beast glow faintly in the moonlight, illuminating the pattern of stars etched into its hide and casting an ethereal halo about its form. Indeed it is certainly large enough to ride, yet practically unheard of. The clans only ever used the tamest _Andríg_ to pull carts and they would never let anyone even attempt to mount them. 

Constantin follows the _doneigad’s_ gaze and visibly frowns at the idea yet neglects to voice any concerns. Instead he glances down at Aurelie with a curiosity sparkling in his honeyed eyes that makes her stomach clench. 

“I-I do not believe such a thing would be possible..” She stammers. 

“Whatever you did to that creature has altered it greatly, _carants._ It has been your constant shadow for the last few days and treats you as though you are its _mátir._ I can say with confidence that it would allow you to mount it and carry you off to Hikmet. You and _Anem_ are soulbound, it would not cause you - nor Constantin, I believe - any harm.” 

“Very well. I suppose we should depart immediately, my friend.” The former legate replies with a defeated sigh, not entirely believing the words of her aunt.

Petrus takes this moment to pat her shoulder comfortingly. “Slán and I shall organize the camp while you both are away. Remember our lessons, my child.” 

"Of course father, I..." Before she can say aught, she feels Constantin’s arms curl about her and lift her with ease. Gasping at the abruptness of her feet dangling midair, her arms come up about his neck of their own accord, fingers tangling in his silver-blond mane. Though only slightly taller than her, he deposits her atop the snowy _Andríg's_ broad back and vaults up behind her, settling in and allowing her to take control of the beast.

The shadow of heat blooms where his forearms brush her corselet as he braces against her back. The broad palm of his right hand curls up on the outside of her thigh, splayed wide, fingers digging lightly into the flesh that feels tingly from the touch. Carefully, she arranges herself on the rump and toys with _Anem’s_ shaggy hair, trying desperately to force away the blush that wants to paint her cheeks at being manhandled. Even if it would have been difficult for her to climb the mount when it stood level with her own height.

"Let us be on our way," he says, and though he sits behind her she could feel the smirk that lingers upon his lips. Before the entirety of the nearby crowd, he leans down over her shoulder, his breadth overshadowing her petite form and kisses her softly on the shell of her ear. "What do you say, my lucky star. Shall we now see what ruse the governor has planned?"

"Y-yes," she whispers, almost voiceless, feeling the stares of the natives like the burn of direct sunlight upon her skin. "Yes, let us be on our way to the city of Hikmet."

And the _Andríg_ gives a mighty bellow before it lurches, turning east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> andríg | massive creatures that look like buffalo that are often found in the wild  
> renaigse | foreigner  
> carants | friend (friend of the clan)  
> mátir | mother  
> nádaig | children of en on mil frichtimen and guardians of Tir Fradi
> 
> Finally, the plot thickens. What did you guys think of Kurt's appearance? Is the parlay a trap? Tell me your thoughts in the comments! 
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe in these hectic times and that my writing provides a little bit of solace. As always, thank you for reading. <3


	8. Love Like Poison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constantin and Aurelie arrive at the parlay... but all is not as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not beta'd either, but I combed through it multiple times so hopefully there are no mistakes. Hope you enjoy!

**༄ VIII.**

The air seems fresher and cooler as they ride atop _ Anem _ through the Region of Hikmet. Lost are the sounds of voices and footsteps belonging to allies, for now the sun rests as a diamond upon a blooming horizon that peeks through the silhouettes of trees. Instead, Constantin can hear the soft melody of nature through the wildlife and fauna, alto surging with every creak of the trees and its soft trills with each call of the birds. Like land untouched by the black horrors of the world, just rising foothills steeled in the greenest grasses and the watercolors of flowers in blue and yellow and vibrant red.

For a moment, Constantin takes comfort in the feel of Aurelie's lean back molded against his chest, her scarlet ringlets tickling his chin, and the power of  _ Anem' _ s muscles straining between his thighs. Little moments like this, with her, always seem to wash away the anxiety and creeping shadows of his mind. 

The unexpected arrival of Kurt had reopened old wounds and it took everything he had not to separate his mentor's head from his shoulders for treason. It was only looking upon Aurelie with her fair visage flushed with rage that quelled the urge. For all the anger she harboured in that moment, the murder of their oldest friend would do nothing but drive her away from him.

_ My dear, lucky star.. will there ever be a day where we no longer restrain ourselves? _

Looking up to where the path disappears into the thickness of the woods, Constantin cannot help but ponder the motivations of governor Burhan's parlay. It is either a desperate last ditch effort to save the Bridge Alliance from the his wrath, or an assassination attempt. No doubt their spirits are awash with the stains of despair and hopelessness now that they are cornered by corrupted beasts and two newly fledged gods. However if there is one thing that Constantin had learned from his father it is that animals - especially politicians - are the most dangerous when cornered.

Passing into the woods, shade is cast over his head, driving a way the heat that has been slowly and steadily creeping towards discomfort, a whispered foreboding of a mid-autumn blaze that should soon be upon them as the days shorten to the solstice. 

With a snort,  _ Anem _ slows to a halt before a wall of pines, the dew upon their sharp needles glistening with dawn's orange glow. Constantin can begin to see signs of cultivation now. Trails well-trodden through the undergrowth. Stumps of trees scattered about from where the wood has been harvested for warmth or for building.

Then, finally, the sound of movement. 

Footsteps upon the earth.

A low rumble of warning emits from the  _ andríg's _ powerful lungs and Aurelie suddenly tenses against him. He subtly rests his palm upon the handle of his pistol, peering into the woods.

Is it an ambush?

Emerald green flashes before him and a lone figure emerges from the shadowy foliage. Verdant eyes the hue of chestnut narrow from behind their ring of dark lashes. Her complexion is a light tan, with straight ebony locks tucked into the green and silver embroidered hat atop her head. The scout wears a cleaner version of the traditional Bridge Alliance raiment he had last seen Aphra garbed in, and holds herself with the stiffness of duty. Constantin takes a small satisfaction in seeing fear flit across her plain features.

"Welcome to Hikmet, your Excellencies. Governor Burhan sends his greetings and awaits your presence from within his pavilion outside the gates. I am to take you to him with haste." The girl greets them with feigned delight and dips in a shallow bow, an insult to a god. Yet he cannot bring himself to care for her blatant disrespect, having endured courtly pleasantries his whole life. 

"I humbly request that you disembark your... mount," she continues, eyeing the  _ Andríg _ in visible discomfort. "So that we may proceed."

With effortless grace, Aurelie hooks her right leg over the left side of  _ Anem _ and slides off the rough, scaled flank. When her dainty feet connect with the earth, she doesn’t face the scout who patiently watches them but instead turns to delicately stroke her shaking fingers through the beast's starry mane. She is worrying at her lip, he notices, and quickly slips down to join her. The Bridge Alliance woman releases a small huff of annoyance but Constantin pays it no mind as his arms wrap around Aurelie’s waist and he pulls her close. 

He reaches out to brush his scarred fingertips over her slender wrist, ignoring the way her muscles jump at the touch of the coolness of his fingers to her burning hot skin.

"We can do this, Aurelie. We have nothing to fear from them, it is they who should fear us." He softly soothes her and her movements finally stop as her beautiful jade orbs shift to stare up at him through thick red lashes. Briefly the image of them lying in the vibrant meadows and kissing beneath the neon blue sky enters his thoughts. His gaze darts to her rosy parted lips and Constantin swallows the urge to recreate that moment.

Before his urges get the best of him however, she abruptly spins to face the scout, cheeks tinged a delightful pink.

"Lead the way." She orders the woman. Who in turn gives a slight dip of her head before pushing past the pines and into the clearing beyond. She waits a moment for Constantin to join her before they both follow after the scout.

Anticipation, anxiety and something much darker crawls beneath the muted green veins of his flesh as he feels the sharp pine needles scratch at him. It isn't long before the thick forestry gives way and he is assaulted by the golden hues of wheat shining like gold in the sunlight. In the center of the field is a large tent-like structure standing erect just a few yards outside Hikmet's walls, the Bridge Alliance banners dancing atop the peaks. Beside him Aurelie is quiet. Her eyes are dull and distant, staring down into the field that opens up before them into a plateau, but neither seeing nor appreciating the blazing warmth and heady wild fragrance of native flora or the glittering sun jewel of white and gold resting at the heart in resplendence. Mayhaps Constantin does not know her mind as well as his own, but he knows that something about this is strange. Unnatural and out of character.

Still, her silence weighs heavy on his heart. Though he steels himself against his own anxiety and refuses to show in his eyes his uncertainty, refusing to let the thought of seeing the governor bend his spine in shame or soften his features from their determined cast, his heart still beating heavily in his throat like a drum. More than anything he wishes he could reach out and hold her hand.

The path that leads towards the pavilion is lined with men and women clad in the colours of the Alliance and Coin Guard alike, standing sentry as Constantin and Aurelie trekk past their worn faces. In the distance he can see the silvered and gold glimmer of lights of Hikmet rest behind a cradle of ivory stone, its thick walls shielding much of the city from view. It seems oddly far away in the wake of dawn, little star-glimmers flickering away like fireflies fleeing with the night. He can see the light glow from gilded rooftops, painted all rosy in pinks, reds and fiery orange until, when the sun fully ascends above the horizon, they burn gold together like a miniature sun in the gleam.

Already Constantin can feel the eyes of soldiers searing into his skin, their stoic faces bearing distrust and even revulsion. Beside him Aurelie's jade eyes blaze through the ebbing light of dawn, her lips pursed in an unyielding expression and her spine straight as steel. The poisonous glances sent their way roll off them like air, yet he can tell she is uncomfortable. She had built a relationship with these people and aided in even the most tedious tasks they had given her, only to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. Constantin can sympathize and yearns to offer her comfort as they near the pavilion, but knows through lessons from his mother that they can not afford to show weakness in this moment.

They halt just before the emerald curtains that shield the inside of the tent from view, the scout giving them another stiff nod before gesturing for them to enter. Constantin immediately schools his visage as he and Aurelie push back the silk and are greeted by the pallid masks of those within.

The silhouettes of six figures enter his vision and he bites back a snarl upon noticing two that he is familiar with. There is a man arranged neatly upon an ornate golden chair opposite of him, his long-legged form spilling from the seat with a simple table before him. A raiment of rich greens adorns his broad chest that sparkles from the nearby candlelight while his worn, wrinkled features are cast in an orange glow. A snowy white beard lines his sharp chin, whilst a turban the hue of dandelion sits atop his head and brings out the flecks of emerald in his hazel eyes. On his right side stands Kurt, adorned in his usual Coin Guard blacks and silvers, his scarred lip twitching in distaste. To Constantin's amusement, the man looks as though he ate something alarmingly sour as he gazes upon them warily. Opposite of him stands the Bridge Alliance scout he had met in the dungeons, Aphra. She wears the leathers he had last seen her in, only slightly cleaner. Her lips are curled into a snarl directed solely at him and Constantin cannot help but feel deeply amused from the display.

"De Sardet and Constantin d’Orsay." The man sniffs at them, lips twisting in distaste despite his cordial greeting. His large eyes are blinking slowly, like a feline observing something twitch and squirm with lazy interest. "I find myself in no need of excessive formality today. Come sit, your Excellencies, and tell me of your terms. I find my interest is caught by such fantastic happenings.”

_ Is he being sarcastic? _

Constantin, at least his younger self, had always interpreted the smiles of nobles to be sunny and friendly, had interpreted their gestures to be kind-hearted and mellow, but now after living for months in Tir Fradi he smells the faintest bit of condescension, annoyance and even chastisement in those words. These damn politicians, never speaking directly of what they feel or say directly what they mean, yet they are uncompromising and stubborn should someone not understand exactly what they want. He almost feels as though he is back home.

Yet this is the way he had been raised, constantly digging through social pleasantries and niceties to find actual meaning in statements. Painting his own words with the same half-hidden acts of insult and sneakily hidden splotches of true intent. It is Aurelie who is the true master of political maneuvering. At playing tricks with words and twisting them to her advantage. For all that some of the gathered company might spit and snarl at him, he can not imagine such scorn bothering her overmuch, unless directed at him.

In the candlelight, governor Burhan’s cat-like eyes faĺll upon the leaf green vines that snake up his arms and marr his Malichor scarred features and his lips twist with sudden revulsion. Constantin can admit that he is an ugly thing to behold now, mutilated from no injury of war that now often brings others disgust as it does the dark looks that pass between deceptively bright eyes. If his jaw had not been set before, too wracked with nerves to be angered, it certainly is now. And if the sternness of his eyes had faltered with lack of confidence while in the presence of the governor, he knows that a hard and cool glare is back in full force. Like the face of his mother in her moments of greatest stubbornness, a wall of pale steel and diamond glass.

With a slight hesitation in her step, Aurelie moves to sit upon an equally ornate chair opposite of the nobleman and Constantin sits down beside her in a separate chair but remains close enough to touch, and he does not hesitate to reach out and lay his hand upon her own. Beneath his palm, he can feel her muscles twitch and strain, but all he does is wrap his fingers about hers whilst staring the governor dead in the eyes.

“Before we start, how about a cup of wine?” Burhan offers, though doesn’t wait for their reply before he’s snapping his fingers at Aphra to come forth with her pitcher. Her darkened features are alight with disdain and annoyance as she hurries forth and pours blood-red liquid into each of the cups atop the table before resuming her post. The governor reaches forth to take his own while both he and Constantin follow suit, but do not dare take a sip. Glancing down at Aurelie, she is staring at the hand curled around the glass as though it is rather a glass filled with demons made of fire and diabolical, glowing eyes. 

“I assure you, it is not poison.” The governor says before taking a sip of his own goblet. Watching him drink settles his nerves a little and Constantin touches his lips to his cup and feels the sweet liquid coat his tongue. Aurelie does the same, though hers is only a quick drink before she sets it back down upon the table.

“It would not be the first time you’ve tried to poison us.” She remarks off-handedly, alluding to the discovery that one of the Bridge Alliance scientists had used Constantin as a test subject when they first arrived in New Serene. The man who gave him the Malichor. 

“Now, De Sardet, that is an old matter that has already been taken care of. It is best we do not reopen old wounds and instead discuss the terms of our surrender.”

“Then speak, old man. I have little patience for your frivolities.” Constantin growls out, his fingers itching to grab the man by the throat. His honeyed words only caused the darkness and madness within his soul to claw at their cage with his growing annoyance.

Something akin to worry flits past the man's features and he narrows his eyes at the governor with suspicion. There is something not right about this.

“Ah, of course. Firstly I ask that you allow the remaining Bridge Alliance civilians and soldiers the time to depart Hikmet. There are many who still hide behind our walls and only half the Naut ships have returned from San Matteus.” 

“Agreed.” Aurelie replies immediately, her jade eyes slightly glowing in the shadows. “I would not see innocents suffer, as long as they leave our shores. There is to be no more colonization upon this continent. It belongs solely to us and the natives now.”

Governor Burhan nods slowly and behind him Aphra releases an amused snort.

“That may be,” he continues, “However I wish to leave some scientists behind to further study the Malichor and the savages.”

Fury burns in Aurelie’s gaze now and her skin grows hot beneath his fingers. Constantin is in awe of how the pattern of tangerine swirls etched into her skin faintly glows with her sudden anger and resists the urge to press his lips against them.

“I had thought those studies were stopped when we condemned your finest scientist to death!” She snarls, trembling in her seat as if holding herself back from leaping across the table. Kurt’s face remains impassive, yet his right hand is noticeably brushing the hilt of his sword. Would he dare attempt to strike Aurelie with it? She could easily hit him with a magic projectile before that happened.

“After learning from Aphra about what you had done and the result of the Final Battle you convinced us to join,” the governor replies serenely, “We had no other choice but to continue Doctor Asili’s work. Aphra herself has been following in his footsteps.”

A sheen of tears fills Aurelie’s widening gaze before the droplets slide down her freckled cheeks. Her expression is that of utter betrayal that breaks Constantin’s heart as she stares at the woman who was once her friend. It is only the feel of her skin brushing against his that holds him back from slaughtering the governor, Aphra and Kurt as the darkness violently takes hold of his heart. How dare they continue those horrendous experiments? Experiments that not only tortured and murdered countless natives but also nearly killed Constantin and condemned him to weeks of unimaginable pain that drove him to the brink of madness. 

“How could you do this?!” Constantin roars as Aurelie audibly bites back a sob. Kurt notably looks away, shame colouring his cheeks yet he dare not leave the governor’s side nor gaze upon her heartbroken expression.

“How could I not? Aurelie destroyed our last chance of finding a cure for the Malichor!” Aphra spits, taking a small step forth. “You should have died that day Constantin, for all our sakes. Instead you corrupted the woman I admired through some foul native magic and now millions of people will die from the sickness. I now see that Doctor Asili was correct all along. A few people must suffer if millions more are to survive.” 

Something inside Constantin shatters and he reaches out to summon vines from the soil in his hatred and anger. Only they do not come. Nor does his arm leave his side. To his alarm his connection to the earth feels sickeningly faint, but that does not scare him as much as the fact that he cannot move his arms, or legs for that matter. He glances down at the goblet in his hand which slips from his numb fingers and falls with a soft  _ clink  _ to the floor, spilling its contents over the lavish rug beneath him. 

Poison.

Constantin can barely register the sound of governor Burhan’s voice as he desperately fights against the sudden fog that clouds his senses and addled his mind. “You were right, Aphra. “ The man chuckles, “Applying the paralytic toxin to the cup's exterior was a wise move. Now we can end these so-called gods and succeed where De Sardet has failed.”

In the distance he can hear the bellowing roar of an outraged  _ andríg _ , accompanied by a faint chorus of screams and thundering gunfire. Yet all he cares for at this moment is Aurelie. Her hand is unmoving beneath his fingers and out of the corner of his eye he can see her slumped upon the chair, head twisted at an awkward angle as their gazes meet. Her deep pools are wide and pleading, rosy mouth slightly agape with horror. Constantin’s heart twists as he watches Aphra step from the shadows with a dagger clutched in her shaking hands as she presses the cold metal against Aurelie’s exposed throat. He screams inaudibly and struggles against the effect of the poison, terror coursing through his body.

_ I promised I would protect you! _

“This is all your fault, Constantin.” Aphra addresses him, lips curling into a sneer, though he can detect the faintest tinge of regret in her tone. “Had you not done this to her.. I wouldn’t have to… I am sorry Aurelie, I wish there was another way…”

Kurt is as still as a statue against the backdrop of emerald silk, his expression morphing into that of shame and horror. His trembling hand is wrapped around the hilt of his longsword, as if on the verge of striking Aphra down where she stands. Conflict and unshed tears shine in his icy blue eyes, yet he remains where he is. Unmoving, as if he too is paralyzed. 

The shrill cries grow louder in his ears, along with the earth shaking hooves of  _ Anem _ . 

“Governor!” A woman’s voice calls from behind him and immediately Burhan is startled from his chair.

“What is causing all that racket outside?”

“A wild beast has gone mad in the fields! Our men are trying to halt its progress towards the pavilion but it's been tearing through our ranks! It will be upon us in a matter of minutes!” The woman cries to the shock of all those in the tent.  _ Anem _ must have felt something was wrong and is now attempting to save himself and Aurelie. Hope Constantin thought lost blooms anew in his chest and if he could move his face muscles, his lips would be set in a satisfied smirk. That feeling quickly dissipates however when he sees Aphra attempt to lift Aurelie from her seat with haste. 

“What are you doing?” Governor Burhan barks at his subordinate, eyeing her warily.

“There is no time!” She snaps. “Leave him. If we take Aurelie with us, Constantin wouldn’t dare attack Hikmet.” The man merely bobs his head in slow understanding before he orders Kurt to assist the scout. His former mentor’s mouth is set in a grim line as he pushes Aphra away from the former legate’s immobile form and tucks his strong arms beneath her, lifting her into his arms as her head falls back, tendrils of scarlet hair spilling over his bicep.

Constantin's blood drains from his face as his heart hammers erratically. The madness licks tauntingly at his mind, adding fuel to the raging inferno within.

_ No... Aurelie! _ He tries to call out but no sound escapes him.

The symphony of screams, gunfire and animalistic roars is now almost deafening as governor Burhan hastily exits out the back of the tent with Kurt and his beloved star in tow. Watching her go, so utterly helpless to stop them, breaks Constantin in a way he has never experienced before.

“If you bring that army here, I will not hesitate to finish what you started.” Aphra promises him before she too departs the pavilion, leaving Constantin alone in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now begins the siege of Hikmet. I want to be clear, I have no intention of villainizing De Sardet's companions. I honestly love them all, even Aphra. However realistically I do not believe they would have completely accepted De Sardet's decision and may even blame it on Constantin's madness. They don't know what happened to them in Anemhaid and they have always viewed Constantin as her cousin, thus her intimate affection for him now would seem unnatural to them. Aphra wants her friend back and firmly believes that somehow Constantin corrupted her with his powers. Whereas Kurt... well, you'll see.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I would love to read any thoughts or predictions you might have! ♡


	9. Soulfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie awakens to find her world turned upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't beta'd, apologies to anyone who notices any mistakes.
> 
> Warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence and gore.

**༄ IX.**

_ Carefully, she traced her hands down Constantin's back, felt the blades of his shoulders and hardness of his muscles quiver. Never had she touched him like this before, neither from behind nor with her palms spread over his body. Aurelie slipped her arms about his torso, letting her fingertips rest upon the firmness of his stomach as she pressed herself against his back and felt the heat of him form against her breasts and belly. Despite the green vines that were woven across his fair skin and splotches of purple and black scars, she still found him painfully beautiful to behold. _

_ She leaned down to tenderly press her lips against a particularly dark spot left by the Malichor on his neck, tasting him. _

_ "I want no other, Constantin.." She whispered against his heart. "I have only ever wanted and needed you.." _

_ He is silent beneath her. _

_ She felt her heart pounding in her chest and wondered if he could feel it throbbing against his back where she was pressed so close. _

_ "Do you truly mean it, Aurelie?" He turned his head so that their eyes could meet, but he still did not move. "I fear that you have not given much thought to your words.." He said softly and she could feel his breath against her lips. _

_ "I have thought about nothing else." She answered earnestly. Her eyes were counting the familiar spread of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose and curve of his cheeks. He turned in her arms, putting them face to face, their noses nearly brushing and she could have named the exact golden shade of his eyelashes, counted them where they ringed the blazing pale honey of his eyes, darkened with the swell of his pupils. _

_ "Kiss me, Constantin.." Was all she managed to gasp out before his lips were taking hers. _

༄

"...Constantin."

Aurelie rouses from her heavy slumber and is first aware of the coolness of the air and it's loamy fragrance. She snakes her fingers through her ruby locks in an effort to quell her pounding head, which is still slightly foggy from the effects of the poison. The ground beneath her is cool and hard like wrought stone and her clothes feel as damp as a flower coated in dawn's dew. Her eyelids flicker open and for a moment the world is a blur of dull hues. Then, as she properly awakens, everything comes into focus.

She sits in the corner of a small cell with a singular window across from her; rays of golden brightness cast rectangles into the stoney floor, reflecting upon the glossy surfaces of the rather sparse room. She blinks a few times, in an attempt to help her eyes adjust to the illumination directed right at her defenseless figure. Shackles are tied around her ankles and wrists, chaining her to the solid stone wall behind her. Aurelie shifts slightly in discomfort and the chains make an echoing sound that bounces off the walls. Glancing to her right, she spots a tall mahogany door with no doorknob on her side and frowns when she notices two shadows flickering just beneath it. 

Events from a few hours previous flashes before her eyes and Aurelie suppresses a sob. She remembers the parlay in the pavilion where she had felt so utterly enraged and heartbroken to learn that Aphra has continued Doctor Aisili's studies on the natives. After all they have seen and been through together.. Then she recalls the numbness setting in and the fear coursing through her body upon realizing that she could not move a single muscle. She should have known governor Burhan would make an attempt on their lives, she had suspected it was a trap but…

_ De Sardet, you fool. _

The very last thing she remembers is the roar of gunfire cracking like thunder overhead and Constantin's wide, desperate eyes watching as they carried her away. Aurelie thought she knew Kurt and Aphra, but allegedly not. They must have taken her to the cellar below the governor’s palace to be used as a bargaining chip against Constantin. 

With a weary sigh she shuffles closer to the wall. All she can do now is wait.

A coldness seeps into her bones as she curls upon the stone and feels her birch crown scraping against the wall. Her eyes flutter closed as she inhales slowly, centering herself from within. Her emotions are running dangerously high; a mix of fear, anxiety and shame ripping mercilessly at her soul. Her mind wanders back to her dream and suddenly her vision is clouded with the memories of Constantin's form wrapped up in her own; the feel of his soft flesh brushing against her; the metallic taste of his mouth devouring her. She can still feel his heat lingering within her, yet Aurelie chooses not to dwell upon the physical aspects of her dream. Instead she recalls how being with him made her heart feel as though it was set on fire, burning with the love that threatened to overwhelm her.

_ Love. _

Something dark, yet delicate and intoxicating bloomed between them the day their blood intertwined beneath  _ En on mil frichtimen _ . This is the first time they have not been in one another's company since that event and already Aurelie feels as though she is starved without him. She had come to terms with the knowing that nothing could ever transpire between her and Constantin, but everything changed that fateful day. The floodgates shattered and the emotions, the desires she had all came rushing back in a powerful tsunami. She has had little time to pick up the pieces, to place them together until now.

The combined impact of the Malichor and his taste for power may have made Constantin cruel, but the love she has always felt never dwindled. He is still a wild tempest over the sea, screaming and bashing against the shore in violence. Beautiful from a distance and deadly up close. Too wild and too wicked to ever be tamed, to ever be gentled and loved.

Aurelie should despair from the fondness that wells up in her chest from the mere thought of him. Fondness for that cold, incisive blade of a grin gleaming from atop a throne of ash. He who now revels in the deaths of innocents, if only to ensure their future together. Constantin is that of bloodshed and violence and malice and vindictive fury. Everything Aurelie De Sardet should despise with every fibre of her being.

"Yet," she whispers into the empty space, "I cannot live without him. I love Constantin with every last piece of my soul."

The rustling of keys startles Aurelie from her thoughts and she instinctively straightens, her spine like steel as she exorcises the vulnerability from her freckled face. She swallows the sudden thickness in her throat as a familiar emerald green jerkin flashes into view. Aphra watches her with a guarded expression as she shuts the door behind her, obscuring Aurelie’s view of those who guard her cell. Unease settles in her belly as she squares her shoulders and fixes her former friend with a pointed look. The scout slowly makes her way over to her and stops just a few feet away.

"This is your fault, not mine." Aphra breaks the silence, her voice trembling as uncertainty clouds her features.

Almond hued eyes watch Aurelie warily as Aphra continues, raising her brow tauntingly. "You are a fool if you thought governor Burhan would not take advantage of your weakness. I told him of the way Constantin looks at you." She spits, disgust marring her conflicted expression.

Aurelie rewards her cruel words with a smile that never fails to send shivers down one's spine. It is not the good kind; of past camaraderie and shared excitement over some new pursuit. How could Aphra change so suddenly before her eyes? The venom that spews from her is utterly toxic, her words like carefully aimed bullets penetrating her skin. The Bridge Alliance scout before her now is no longer the curious mind that spent many evenings in her company having philosophical discussions. Aphra is now twisted and grotesque; ugly on the inside as opposed to the outside. It saddens Aurelie as much as it infuriates her.

Unaware of her thoughts, the woman continues. "Your selfishness cost us, Aurelie. How can you not see it? You condemned the slaughter of millions for the love of one man."

_ I know. _

Such words have all the weight of a punch straight to the gut. And Aphra knows that. Never has she desired to retaliate with her own pale fists against the scout's smug visage until this moment. Her words, as fueled by pettiness and heartbreak as they may be, are biting into her skin worse than any blade or set of fangs. She knows Aurelie well enough to speak the words that can best burrow beneath her flesh like a parasite and gnaw holes in the tenderness. Finding the sensitive spots, the chinks in the armor, and making her blows hurt their maximum potential.

"I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt you." Aphra reveals softly, a glimmer of regret shimmering in her almond irses as she kneels down across from Aurelie in a pool of emerald green cloth. "But you give me no choice. Constantin has somehow altered you with native magic and this might restore you to your former self. I am sorry, my friend."

The tip of a syringe glints from the scout's gloved hands as she edges ever closer to Aurelie.

The former legate's face falls faster than an autumn leaf, her skin turning as white as snow and for a moment it is as if the realization has knocked every wisp of air from her lungs and she sits there, struggling to inhale and exhale.

"I am still the woman you remember, Aphra. Nothing has changed... please don't do this!" Aurelie chokes out, her chains scraping across the stone floor as she presses herself further into the wall, desperate to put as much distance as possible between her and the syringe.

Aphra reaches out to grasp Aurelie's manacled wrist and she instinctively jumps from the touch. Her head is still murky from the effects of the toxin, her body still stiff from being paralysed for hours. All she can do is weakly struggle in the grasp of a woman she thought was a friend. Her knuckles are white from clenching her fists too hard and she grits her teeth from the effort of holding back a cry. Her entire form exudes an animosity that is like acid - burning, slicing, potent. Building with every breath she breathes. Her tear stained face is a hellish red from the suppressed rage and finally Aurelie just.. snaps.

Primeval instinct takes over her as the fiery inferno blazing within is unleashed upon an unsuspecting Aphra, who is but two seconds from filling her veins with some vile concoction. Pure white flames erupt from Aurelie's skin and a startled shriek fills her ears as Aphra jumps back, the smell of burnt flesh filling her nostrils. It feels as though an unholy fire burns in her gut, rolling and twisting with a life all its own, rising up and spewing out in a tide of vile, thorn-encrusted snarls. The woman is quivering in her boots and wide-eyed as she clutches her left hand to her body, which is now a red bubbling mess of melting skin.

All of Aurelie's emotions that she has been bottling these last few days take on the form of white fire that flickers and curls across the stone, the heat burning her soles through the thickness of her boots. Tendrils of white dance around her fingertips and toes before they gather along her manacles and suddenly grow blindingly bright. In an instant the chains that had once held her melt from her ankles and wrists in the form of liquid silver. 

Aphra remains mute as she watches Aurelie in a mix of pain and disbelief, still nursing her burnt hand.

The former legate barely has time to understand these newfound abilities herself before the wooden door is kicked open and two burly Coin Guard men come streaming in.

"Oy, scout! What's with all the ruckus?" One grisled man with hazel eyes barks before catching sight of Aurelie. His mouth slackens with shock, as do his companions. 

She summons a burst of flame before they can draw their weapons and hurls it in their direction. They do not even have the time to scream before their bodies are incinerated by her celestial fire, falling into a pile of diamond-like particles onto the floor.

Suddenly gunshots boom through the air, followed by a chorus of screams.

“He has come for you.” Aphra’s lips curl into a sneer as her wide eyes meet her own. “Go. Run to him and witness what your choice has cost you.”

The ferocity of Aurelie’s flames falter and vanish as a coldness seeps into her bones from the scout’s words. Constantin will raze the city to the ash in his search for her. Above her the cries grow louder and the ground quakes beneath her feet, feeling as though an explosion has rocked the foundations of Hikmet. Powerful vibrations shoot through the earth and she grits her teeth as she stumbles wordlessly through the cellar door, anxiety driving her forward through the darkened halls.

༄

To her relief the palace is empty. The guards must have fled towards the sound of battle outside, leaving no more than two behind to stand sentry at Aurelie's cell. On her way to the main foyer she is lucky enough to spy the familiar hilt of her enchanted stone sword and pistol and quickly retrieves her precious weapons, sliding the sword into the scabbard at her hip and keeping her pistol at the ready. Glancing down, she bites back a sigh upon noticing that her fingers are trembling from the building anxiety. It is not so much she is worried about Constantin - he is able enough to take care of himself - it’s the people she fears for. The Coin Guard and Bridge Alliance soldiers may have chosen their side, but the citizens are innocent. Should they die because of her… Aurelie shakes her head, ridding herself of such thoughts. She could be recaptured if she does not keep moving. Thus with a heavy sigh the former legate steels herself and picks her way through the foyer towards the main doors, prying them open to reveal the courtyard outside.

Glass, blood and the smell of fear and death assault her senses and Aurelie swallows a scream, taking in the signs of struggle all about her and bodies littering the courtyard. She feels the rise of sickness up the back of her throat, dizziness resting as a heavy cloud about her eyes as her vision swims in and out of focus. 

Heaps of corpses rotting in dust, mire and blood are gathered in a stinking mountain of flesh and metal and bone, lining the streets of Hikmet below the palace stair. Massive stones and writhing vines with sharp thorns fill every crevice and she gasps when noticing that the wall that had once surrounded Hikmet was torn asunder by great tendrils of swarming flora. Some remains of the barrier lay scattered within the city square, few having squashed citizens fleeing the city or embedded within the various townhouses. The once pristine city of vibrant emerald banners is now fire-ravaged as far as the eye can see, black and starkly naked, removed of life and barren with poison and taint.The white-cobbled courtyard is slick with blood and organs, slippery beneath Aurelie's boots, and the cries of the dying and hunted are a chorus in her ears, seeking help that will never come.

_ Oh, Constantin.. What have you done? _

A few feet below a pack of shadowy _ dantríg _ rip into the fresh corpse of a woman, her sightless eyes wide in an expression of permanent horror. Ribbons of blood gush from the opening as their teeth sink into the flesh, audibly devouring the meat with wet slaps and excited growls. Aurelie’s stomach churns as she resists the urge to vomit all over her ash-stained boots. Her lithe form sways like a blade of grass in a strong breeze, knees not feeling like they are made from tendon and bone rather bits of fluff and twig. 

She knew that Constantin would rescue her, she knew that he might give into madness and chaos that was always a hair away from taking control. Yet she did not truly realize how deep the corruption burrowed within him, how twisted his mind had become. Aurelie had forgotten how cruel and merciless he can be, for she had seen nothing but glimpses of the beautiful and thoughtful boy from their childhood these last couple days. Despite being cured, the Malichor still poisons his mind as well as his heart, urging him to commit unimaginable atrocities in her name. 

But even as she is sickened by his actions, the warmth he gives her never falters. She cannot help but think that she is also a monster like him, so strong is her love in the face of chaos and death he has wrought.

The sound of boots crunching against shards of glass alerts her to a presence behind her and she whips around to face them, her arm shaking as she rests the barrel of her pistol against Kurt’s forehead. 

“I can not let you leave, De Sardet,” he informs her calmly, voice devoid of the darkness that compromises her thoughts. Judging by the blood crusted just under his nose and the pair of burgeoning black eyes blooming as dark flowers across his worn face, it looks as though he was in a fight recently. There is no accusement in his shadowed silvery-blue gaze, only an endless sorrow. 

“I am sorry, Kurt. I must return to his side, even now.” 

“A’ye, I know,” he replies with a half-hearted grin that immediately falters as she lowers her weapon. “And I.. hope that you will finally find happiness with him. You deserve it.. But if I let you walk away you two will only bring darkness to Tír Fradí and the other continents.”

Aurelie nods slowly in understanding, her heart throbbing as the tears stream down her face. “I do not wish to kill you.” She tells him softly, expression hardening while they both draw their swords from their sheaths. His longsword glints in the firelight as he takes position and Aurelie mirrors him, readying her stone blade in a defensive stance. Her arms are trembling from the movement, her body severely weakened from the white flame she had conjured earlier. In a melee duel against her former mentor, she knows there is little chance of her winning. 

“Neither do I, Green Blood.” 

Aurelie's muscles tense as she mentally prepares herself for an assault against her mentor. Mouth set in a grim line, he leaps out and barrels towards her with his longsword aiming for a swing at her side. She lowers her blade and their swords clash against each other with a sharp ringing noise as she parries his strike. His blade raises once more and she instinctively dodges the sharp steel by a hair before rolling to the side. She barely has time to regain her footing before his shoulder collides with her chest, sending her sprawling across the blood soaked stone. The impact leaves her ribs sore yet she quickly recovers and lashes out with her blade - but Kurt is remarkably agile for wearing his full silvery armor and dodges her strike.

Spinning, he slashes the tip of his weapon across her thigh, leaving a shallow but long gash in his wake. The former Legate runs her trembling fingers over the wound, which burns fiercely as warmth soaks through her leathers and coats her fingertips red. She swallows the pain as Kurt swings at her and Aurelie ducks her head before the weapon has a chance to sever her head and glides fluidly across the slick floor. She rewards his blow with her own, crimson splattering against the courtyard stone as her blade meets flesh. Kurt's left hand flies to his abdomen but does not allow his gaze to stray from her.

"Stop De Sardet, you will not win this fight." He warns her, desperation laced in his tone. Yet his words do not shatter her resolve for she quickly takes up her stance once more.

"We shall see." She responds and with a flash of steel and Kurt's blade rises up to meet her own.

The duel feels as though it lasts for hours and Aurelie is quickly tiring. She sustained at least three more wounds from him - nothing more than shallow cuts - and gave him four in return. They are both bruised and battered now but unyielding in their attacks. She must end it soon, she knows but is unable to use her magic ring to do so. The fire had consumed all magic reserves, leaving her too weak to even summon a single arcane projectile.

Her biceps strain as she braces her sword against his own, the steel grinding into her stone blade mercilessly. Beads of sweat line her brow and flushed cheeks as she grunts with effort and Kurt leans in all the more, his hot breath tickling the tip of her nose.

There is only one way to end this, she realizes and slackens her grip on her blade.

_ Find me, Constantin… _

Her fingers release her sword hilt and it falls between them, colliding with a ring upon the blood stained ground. Kurt's expression morphs into one of pure horror and disbelief as the tip of his blade slips into her chest with ease. He quickly pulls it from her and tosses it aside, a choked sob leaving him.

Warmth like no other spreads across Aurelie as her knees buckle and she collapses, only to be caught in her former mentor's cold, steel-plated arms. He pulls her to his chest and tucks a stray scarlet curl behind her ear, sobbing as his tears plummet like sparkling raindrops falling upon her neck and cheeks.

"Leave me, old friend." She urges, choking on the taste of copper that fills her mouth and dribbles down her chin.

"I'm sorry, Aurelie.. so sorry..." He cries into her crown of birch branches and wild curls before gently laying her upon the ivory stone. With one final look of regret he stands and limps out of sight, away from the carnage littered streets and into the shadows.

Aurelie no longer feels the sting of her wounds as she lay there, pressing her palms against the mangled flesh where the blade had punctured her heart. She once heard you were supposed to stop bleeding by putting pressure on wounds. But oh, there is so much blood - warm and dark ruby, pooling around her like a halo of velvet silk.

As the life fluid drains out of her broken body, her pale lips open to invoke a name, a name that tastes ever so sweet upon her tongue.

"Constantin..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Dantríg | A beast of slimy skin and scales, with spikes atop its head. 
> 
> Yeah, I’m a sucker for cliff hangers. So there we have it, some actual plot. The previous chapters have been filled with fluff and De Sardet and Constantin rebuilding their bond, but I needed to remind everyone about the darker aspects of this fic. While Constantin is not completely mad, he is not the same person he was before the Malichor. I pride myself on ‘gray’ characters, meaning that no one is purely good nor evil and while he has moments of sanity, there is something still dark and twisted about him, a part that yearns for chaos. De Sardet is immune to the Malichor and thus when she bound herself, she remained who she is for the most part. I wanted to reflect that in her powers… I see her as Constantin’s equal; tempering the darkness within him. I thought long and hard about her abilities as a god (we’ve only scratched the surface) and wanted hers to mirror her soul, as Constantin’s do. We aren’t given much information on En on mil frichtimens powers in game so I made my own… I hope white flames are not too weird.
> 
> I know some of you are wondering why Kurt would betray DS, especially since he still thinks of her as a little sister. Some of his motivations will be explained in the next chapter I promise. Thank you for reading, I am absolutely overwhelmed by the amount of support this story is gathering! <3
> 
> Next up is Constantin's POV.


	10. Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constantin's mind begins to unravel as he lays siege to Hikmet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd but I hope you like it anyway!
> 
> Warning: There are graphic descriptions of violence and gore in this chapter. (Last one, promise!)

**༄ X.**

He lay upon his back in a field of golden wheat, watching as the molten-red leaves above fall silently from trees of oak and mahogany. He knows not how much time has passed since he was dragged into the flora, but as his pale lashes flutter open he notices that the stars of morning are peeking down at him like silver asters, glimmering and shimmering. An amythest-purple canvas of fluffy clouds tinted slightly with tangerine orange spreads out before him, a hue that reminds him of the delicate swirls etched into Aurelie's skin. 

Somehow after falling into unconsciousness _Anem_ had rescued him from the garish emerald tent and pulled him to safety before dashing off into the thick foliage. Part of him wishes the _andríg_ had just left him there, writhing in the dirt and screaming voicelessly into the empty void.

A vision from his abrupt slumber plagues his every waking thought since then. Nightmares have been hounding him for months since he was inflicted with the Malichor, but they've been on a rampage of late. Only the presence of his lucky star lessened them but without her at his side, the dark, twisted thoughts engulfed him effortlessly. In this last vision he remembers wrapping his fingers around the soft flesh of Aurelie's pale throat as he watched all life drain from her lovely features. He remembers lying in the ashes of _en on mil frichtimen,_ feeling his body convulse in agony as fire consumed his flesh, a dagger speared through his heart. But the worst part was finding Aurelie beaten, tortured and in so much pain.. only to discover that his hands were that which had committed the atrocity. He watched on as she died in his arms, the love in her eyes never fading as she fell into darkness.

When he had awoken, he promised himself that his dreams would never become reality. He would do anything for Aurelie, anything to shield her from that horrible fate. Gradually as time passed and he laid there, feeling began to return to his limbs yet Constantin could not find it in himself to move. He failed her. How could he lead this siege without her guidance, without her warmth and fiery spirit? He is lost, so utterly lost…

The simering wind carries a fragrance with it and Constantin feels his stomach twist in knots as it fills his senses. A mix of mulch and blood with the sharpness of gunpowder. The world around him is nothing but a whirlwind of disorder and violence, a blur of colour and vicious motion. His parched, panting tongue collects the dust choked air which intermixes with the bitterness of iron. Deafening, blood pounding in his ears at a ferocious beat inside his mind. The sound is barely enough to obscure the cries of men in the distance, the screams of injured beasts and the thunder of massive boulders colliding with the walls at shocking speeds. 

The attack has already begun.

In his state of delirium he must have ordered his army to begin the siege, that or they sensed his distress. Coming to his senses Constantin raises himself from his spot amongst the thick wheat and peeks over the golden heads, his heart hammering in his chest. Hordes of animals he had corrupted mindlessly hurl themselves at Hikmet’s walls, staining the silver masonry with ink-black blood. He can hear their bones shatter with a sickening crunch as they throw themselves at the main gate and his heart falters. Atop the wall uniformed silhouettes of soldiers aim their rifles at the raging beasts and a sharp _CRACK_ echoes from the barrels as they frantically attempt to keep them at bay. Above the main gate men dressed in the dark hues of the Coin Guard tilt a massive cauldron over the side, bathing the swarming creatures in streaming pitch. Their shrill cries fill the air as they jump around wildly, then still. Ten _nàdaig_ line up on the ridge beside him, their shadowy arms straining as they rip boulders from the earth and throw them at the city’s defenses. Few of the rocks hit the walls or the soldiers upon them, but instead sail over entirely and strike the buildings within. A chorus of alarmed cries reach his senses as one boulder tears through the belltower, showering great stones upon the people below.

Constantin nearly bolts from his skin as a slim hand falls upon his shoulder and gently squeezes it. He turns then to meet the familiar faces of Slàn and Petrus, concern etched in their features. Behind them rows upon rows of _sisaig_ _cnameis_ clan warriors stand dressed in their native armor, bearing a mixture of stone swords, axes and bows. They all watch him warily and he stifles a sigh and turns his full attention on the _doneigad_. Her face is clean of her usual tribal markings, though set in an emotionless mask as always. He can see the faint dusting of freckles across her cheeks and shallow wrinkles at the corners of her lashes. 

“Where is Aurelie?” Slàn breaks the silence, cold green eyes narrowing. While waiting for his answer she hands him the leather hilt of a stone sword and Constantin parts his mouth to protest but a searing glance cast his way makes him think better of it. He’s a god, he doesn’t need a sword… but he supposes it would be an insult if he didn’t take it. Thus wrapping his fingers around the grip, he wordlessly straps it to his belt and finally replies.

“The parlay was a trap. They had poisoned us with a paralytic toxin that rendered us temporarily immobile. There was nothing I could do... they took her.”

In an instant silence falls upon Petrus and Slàn. The latter gazes upon him beseechingly, her lips pursed in a tight frown while her knuckles grow white from where they rest upon her dagger hilt. The memory of Aurelie's capture flashes before his eyes in that moment. Her wide, jade pools pleading as Kurt carried her motionless body away from him into the dark. His heart seizes in a terrible ache as he recalls how easily she was stolen from his side, of how he was unable to protect her.

His next words are barely choked out through the thickness in his throat.

"We attack with the _nàdaig_ and creatures. I will obliterate that damnable wall and once I do... leave none alive."

"But.. Constantin! There are still civilians in Hikmet!" The old Thélème priest protests, his face growing pale with dismay. "I beg you, they are innocent and do not deserve your wrath."

"They took Aurelie from me!" He roars and feels a sick satisfaction in watching Petrus flinch under his searing gaze. "The civilians, the Coin Guard, the Bridge Alliance.. have done nothing but bring misery to Tír Fradì. Nay, Petrus.." Constantin continues, lips twisting in a menacing snarl as he takes a step towards the old man. "We will fertilize the land with their blood."

Constantin turns back to the wall in the distance and clenches his jaw as he watches the swarm of corrupted animals continue to violently hurl themselves at the gates. Slàn joins him on his right, her clean face rendered in a grim expression as she surveys the siege. Rows of battle-hardened _sisaig_ _cnameis_ warriors fan out on either side of them, lining up shoulder to shoulder. To his surprise their faces no longer bear the traditional markings of their clan, but a different design altogether. Blackened charcoal is smeared across their eyes in the form of shadowy tendrils, with a sharp 'V' diving from their upper lips. Elegant swirls of white ash frame their cheeks and foreheads, with small dots that resemble constellations glimmering in between. It reminds him of _Anem's_ starry hide.

"We are of your clan now, _renaigse_ god." The _doneigad_ murmurs, as if reading his thoughts.

Warmth blooms in his chest from the gesture, but he quickly buries the sensation. Giving Slàn a curt nod, Constantin turns back to the siege with a grim expression. He must do this.. For Aurelie. For his lucky star. He will burn this entire city to the ground to get to rescue her from Burhan's clutches.

Even now, he can already feel the stifling, acidic nature of his darker side rising to the forefront, knowing he would be seeing again those faces who had once sneered down their noses at Constantin and Aurelie. Glowing pale irises the hue of honey stare upon the city as though it is something hideous that has crawled up from the earth, spitting flame and ash. He stretches his fingers out toward the wall, feeling the madness curl deliciously beneath his flesh. He remains frozen in place, expression otherwise blank but with eyes vividly standing out for their gleam of fear and hate. For a long, sickening moment all anyone around him can do is watch.

His mind travels down, down, down into the deep, dark depths of Tír Fradì. It takes all of his focus not to stray from the path, to be lost within the abyss for all eternity as he spreads himself over the continent, summoning vines to heed his call. The ground trembles beneath his feet as great tendrils of thorny flora rip through the soil at terrifying speeds, heading straight for a single focal point. Beads of sweat line his brow and he grits his teeth as he feels the madness, power and hunger for chaos consume his soul in that moment. _For you. For us._ Those words haunt his thoughts until at last vines adorned in sharp black spikes tear through the ground from beneath the stone wall with unimaginable force, violently upending the carved rock with bodies thick as tree trunks. The sheer power of their writhing forms sends shockwaves through the earth and Slàn stumbles from the tremors beside him. Screams rip through the air as the soldiers that line the walls are thrown from their positions, along with countless rectangular stones that are spread throughout the city. Even from this distance he can see the masonry obliterate entire dwellings full of people, crushing those attempting to flee. Most of his army of shadowy beasts was able to halt their attack before the wall was torn asunder, and now they stream over the shattered walls in a river of black; mercilessly slaughtering those within Hikmet.

Slàn’s pine green eyes are as large as two moons as she looks up at him in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Her hands and shoulders are visibly shaking, face the pigment of a corpse. It takes her a moment to gather herself, he notices, before she whips around to face her clanmates and raises her sword into the air. 

“For the new gods of Tír Fradì!” She cries before bolting into the horde of beasts, running at full speed towards the city. 

The warriors respond with their own battle-cry, their eyes glinting fiercely in the violet light of dawn. They rush out in tight groups across the golden plains, raising their weapons high as they follow their _doneigad_ into battle.

Constantin watches in wonder for a moment before he, too, joins the fray. Every muscle and bone in his body screams from weariness, but he presses onwards in grim determination. 

_I will find you, Aurelie.._

༄

The booming echoes of pistols and rifles fill the air, followed by the cutting swing of swords and the meaty sound of their bite into flesh and bone.

A man stumbles into Constantin - obviously not one of the natives on his side with his shining gorget and Coin Guard black - as he sharply turns a corner towards the palace. Panicking, the soldier raises his pistol aloft, and aims it at Slán's back; time freezes as he feels fear and rage shoot through him. He does not hesitate. He aims for the soldiers outstretched hand first and slices his blade clean through. Crimson droplets spray across his face as the man releases a shrill screech. Then he aims for his throat and the screaming ceases.

The soldiers eyes are filled with tears as their gazes meet and Constantin kneels beside the body, overtaken with the sudden feeling of sickness, his stone sword slick with blood. It is sticky on his hand as he trails his fingertips through the growing pool that spreads out across the cobblestones.

"My lord, snap out of it!" The warmth of a hand squeezes his shoulder and shakes him harshly. Glancing up, Slán's pine green irises glow like a thousand coalesced stars. He scrambles to his feet, nearly slipping in the blood as his head spins with nausea.

To his left, he hears a cry and a gurgle, watching as a woman adorned in native furs stumbles and falls to her knees, clutching at a hole in her throat. Ribbons of carmine bubble from between her lips even as tears of agony spill from her wide eyes. She is choking, unable to clear her airways before collapsing upon the stone and drowning in her own blood.

To his horror, he feels nothing from the sight. His mind is far removed from the chaos he inflicts upon Hikmet, from the deaths he and his army have so mercilessly taken. Perhaps not too long ago he would be disgusted in himself, yet now he cannot bring himself to care. He thrives on their suffering. They, who had the audacity to poison him and Aurelie, who foolishly stole her from his side. The lives lost to reclaim her mean little more than the wind.

At this time it does not matter who or how many he has to kill. All he cares about is reaching her.

Men garbed in rich greens and sombre blacks stream through the alley, cutting a swathe through the hordes of corrupted animals. All of them suddenly jerk sharply as Constantin raises his hand, summoning his vines from deep below the tarnished cobbled stone. Tendrils of green and black shatter the street, sending small stones flying in all directions before gutting the unsuspecting soldiers. No scream sounds from their throats as they collapse upon the masonry and he steps over them without thought to their survival or imminent deaths. All the while Slán is screaming orders to her clan warriors, who scramble to dispatch any lingering soldiers. Constantin barely hears or understands the words, for his heartbeat is loud and frantic at the base of her throat and his temples.

The chime of bells erupt from the docks, causing his party to still their movements. He turns his gaze towards the adjoining alleyway, catching sight of Bridge Alliance soldiers, Coin Guard and civilians fleeing in terror towards the port. He is tempted to leave them be before two familiar faces flash in the distance and fury envelopes his heart. Governor Burhan violently pushes his way through the throng of swarming bodies with a squad of Coin Guard in tow, Kurt amongst them.

His lips sneer in disdain as Constantin steps over the bodies of his fallen foes, mute to the shouts of Slàn who slits the throat of a Bridge Alliance guard with twin daggers. No tremble shakes the hands or knees of the new god, nor does grief or shock dull the garish glow of his white-gold eyes. All he can see is the flutter of emerald and governor Burhan’s smug visage from when he stole Constantin’s most precious jewel from his side. 

“After them!” he shouts, voice booming so loudly that it might as well have been formed of thunder. He is paying not a bit of attention to the dying wails and groans all around him, for they are of so little concern to his burning rage that he can not be bothered. His voice is sharper than any blade and cuts through the sounds of combat like a whip, lashing Slàn and her warriors into action. “We cannot let them escape! Burhan or Kurt might know where Aurelie is being held!”

His eyes land on the governor and his entourage once more and in that moment the deep brown pools of Burhan meet his menacing stare. A smug grin curls upon Constantin’s features as the man visibly flinches in the bright light of morning, all colour draining from his face. 

He has never felt so wild before. So unkempt and ruffled. His father had a temper that left him meek and scared of the man all his life, but right now Constantin’s is a controlled sort of temper, groomed and sleek and filled with thoughtful malice and cleverness. This is not his father's bitter anger…no. 

This is madness.

The _doneigad_ follows his gaze and dips her head in a solemn nod before turning to shout at her warriors in _Yetch Fradí_. The men and women rise a battle-cry in response, their eyes becoming fierce as they set their sights upon Constantin's prey. A cold, hard determination hardens his heart. It spreads into his limbs like liquid fire and he explodes into motion, darting into the thick of the civilians and soldiers that flee in terror. He finds Slàn and his men lining up on either side of him, slaughtering those who dare come close. Their native leathers are stained red with old and fresh blood as they wield their weapons with deadly precision. The walkway is wide - wide enough to hold his legion four ranks deep as they fight to keep up with his pace.

Constantin keeps his eyes trained on the emerald cloak of Governor Burhan as he and the clan warriors spill into the harbour, cutting down those in their path in their haste to catch the vile man. Only two Naut ships remain docked at port while six others float close to shore, already packed to the brim with people. Those that remain violently push and shove each other in a fevered frenzy, having little care for anyone but themselves as they stream into the remaining vessels. 

He spots a woman clutching a child to her breast in an ivory dress splattered with red. She begins to cross a wooden plank connected to the deck of a ship, which stands several feet above the crashing waves. A burly man loses patience with her hesitant steps and mercilessly pushes her and the child off the plank, their screams filling the air as they plummet into the murky depths of the sea.

Anger of the blackest sort fills his veins in that moment, but Constantin forces himself to remain focused on the task at hand. He narrows his glowing gaze as he once again catches sight of governor Burhan, talking animatedly with the captain of a ship on the verge of departure. Kurt and Coin Guard form a tight ring around him, swords drawn as they anxiously watch Constantin and his warriors approach. Corrupted animals stream out behind him, releasing a chorus of otherworldly yelps and cackles before diving into the slaughter with terrible eagerness.

"Burhan!" Constantin's thunderous roar echoes throughout the harbour and the man nearly jumps out of his skin as he trains his wide, fearful eyes upon him. He ignores Kurt entirely as he bowls over two Coin Guard, his stone blade slicing open their throats and bellies as they release a sickening wail and fall into a pile at his feet. Before his old mentor has a chance to react, Constantin's fingers wrap around Burhan's throat and the man gives out a pitiful choked cry.

"Where is she? Where is Aurelie?!" He snarls, watching the man squirm helplessly in his grasp. The madness that boils within him feels intoxicating as it poisons his bloodstream and twists his insides with the immaculate hunger to snap Burhan's fragile neck. He is deaf to the shouts of Kurt as his fingertips curl deeper into the tender flesh and the man's eyes bulge.

"K...urt..." The governor chokes out, his visage rapidly gaining a sickly blue pigment as he gazes past Constantin entirely and at the frozen form of Kurt, who looks on in pure horror. "E-end...this. K...i..lll De...Sardet... only....way... to..save...."

The reminder of Aurelie feels like the softest silk upon his cold, scarred skin and Constantin sucks in a painful breath. Would his former mentor do as he is bid? Tears gather in the corners of his glowing irises at the thought of Kurt's blade effortlessly passing through her bone and muscle, impaling her straight through the heart. Her beautiful, jade pools gazing at him with love as she begs for Constantin to save her.

An enraged scream tears through his throat and he tightens his grip on Burhan's neck, squeezing it with all his strength - which has tripled since _Anemhaid_. He laughs loudly as the flesh gives way beneath his fingers, hot blood squirting into his hair and across his face. Constantin's lips are spread in a gleeful grin as the Governor's squirming form stills and collapses before him.

Silence falls upon the harbour and he glances up to find Kurt no longer alone but with fifty Coin Guard men and women, surrounding Constantin and his party. Too absorbed in his revenge he had failed to notice the trickle of reinforcements. The cold, sorrowful look upon his former mentor's grisled face eats at his heart in a way he had not expected. He stands on the outer edge of his squad, longsword strapped to his back and limbs poised as if on the verge of sprinting. Kurt's scarred mouth parts as if to say something but then quickly closes in a tight frown, thinking better of it.

"After him!" Constantin bellows to his warriors who jump from the sharpness in the tone. Slàn's dirtied visage slides into a grim expression and there is a slight hesitation in her step as she throws herself into the ranks of Coin Guard, wielding her daggers with a vengeful zeal.

Kurt casts him one last look full of disappointment and heartbreak before he breaks into a sprint, his armor rattling as he heads towards the corpse-white silhouette of the Hikmet palace. Unable to follow due to the swarm of Guards, Constantin reaches out with his mind to summon a vine from the earth. His heart hammers in his ears as a thorny tendril shoots from the cobbled stone and wraps around Kurt's ankle, relentlessly digging its sharp tips into his leather boots. It trips his former mentor mid-step and Kurt's face collides with the stone alleyway in a sickening crunch. His visage is bruised and bloody as he twists around in the flora's writhing grasp and draws his sword, slicing through the plant before darting off into the streets once again.

An roar of outrage leaves Constantin as he slashes and stabs his way through the throng of bodies, desperate to reach Aurelie before it's too late.

༄

Sparks light up the sky and blood oozes across the horizon as Constantin finally ascends the carved alabaster staircase that leads to the governor's palace. Every step feels heavy, as if his boots are filled with rocks and his heart hammers loudly in his ears. Something is wrong, he can feel it in his bones like poison, curling beneath his skin. Kurt would have reached her by now, he knows. But Aurelie is unmatched with a sword and could easily prevail against their old mentor. Why, she might be waiting for him atop these stairs, standing over the dead body of the poor fool. Serves him right for betraying them by siding with the Bridge Alliance. He should know better than to cross the two new gods of Tír Fradì.

The siege's aftermath lay all around him in grotesque piles of flesh, the stench of decay ripe in the air as his beasts gorge themselves on the dead and dying. Constantin pays it no mind - the loss is worth it. Soon he would see his lovely Aurelie and feel her warmth in his arms once again.

He freezes mid step upon spotting a familiar silhouette lying in the centre of the ivory courtyard. The fiery tendrils of her scarlet hair are unbound, long and dark spilling down her shoulders and dipping into a pool of crimson that reminds him of velvet sheets. Her captivating jade eyes that were once so full of laughter and life stare up at the darkening sky with emptiness, her lush lips no longer their usual rosy pink but pale and slightly parted. Shallow wounds marr her porcelain skin, but the killing blow was clearly a sword that had speared her through the heart.

He stands there, frozen in breathless waiting, as if drowning on oxygen, lungs aching to draw full breath but squeezing tightly shut and burning. The feeling of helplessness and despair washes over him like the salty waves of the sea. His stomach twists into knots until he wonders if he might vomit onto the toes of his boots. Yet, once again, he feels that ancient fire burning, heat rising up in his breast. That same feeling that had driven him to crush Burhan's windpipe; cursed and black and filled with hatred and madness, until he can not stand still for the itching beneath his flesh, can not hold his tongue for the words that scream to pour forth, can not turn his back and pretend all is well, silenced out of nothing more than overwhelming grief.

Constantin knows death like he knows an old friend. He understands it intimately. He has experienced it personally. But this… 

Grief surges with every breath he expels, reaching higher peaks, unable to be soothed by his long intakes of the damp autumn air. The emptiness of his heart, the numbness pounding his brain, the salty tears that flow unchecked from his eyes, the sheer nothingness takes ahold of his soul and threatens to engulf him entirely.

_My beautiful.. fair, pure and kind Aurelie…_

Disoriented, he trembles and shakes, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade so tight that his bones ache because nothing else in this hellish world of blood and screams and black smoke is familiar. There is just blackness and the spinning of the cold, unfeeling stars that bloom upon the twilight sky. His legs buckle, knees sinking into the warm bed of her lifesblood. Sobs wrack his trembling frame as he crawls on his hands and knees towards her, trousers growing damp with her blood and coating his hands like thick, red paint. Upon reaching her motionless form, he kneels beside her and gently maneuvers her to cradle in his arms, head tucked up against his chest. He feels taut like a lute string as his shaking fingertips lovingly trace the curve of her jaw, smearing the pale, freckled skin with red. The tangerine swirls that dance across her visage are pulsing and warm beneath his touch.

He blinks down at her, the blood-red leaves of her birch crown shimmering as the light from the setting sun dances across their luster. He feels utterly fragile. Like all the fury bubbling beneath his flesh is just a mask made from the thinnest glass. Like he would shatter under the lightest breeze.

"We are supposed to be forever, my dearest heart. It cannot end here..." He murmurs into the mess of scarlet curls atop her head, uncaring of how her crown of branches digs into his neck and cheeks. 

Constantin swallows sharply down the dark beast of fury that lingers, unsated, hungering in the back of his mind. What he has done to the Bridge Alliance and Kurt is just a taste of what he wants to rain down upon them for their sins, and so much less than they deserve. Would that he go back to seeing his old mentor in the harbour and strip him of his skin and his flesh piece by piece! Would that he could have found somewhere quiet to make him scream and flail beneath his knife for endless hours!

And then comes the horrified guilt, because this is not what is supposed to happen. This is not something he has agreed to, not something he has intended, not something that he has ever wanted.

He cannot accept it. Even as she lay motionless in his embrace, he cannot accept that she is gone. She has been through so much worse and always managed to return to him without a scratch, wearing a beaming smile that never failed to stir his heart. It is he who was supposed to perish, perhaps inside that wretched volcano. Not _her_ , not his Aurelie.

Constantin gasps on another sob as he tilts her chin and leans down to lightly brush his lips across her cold mouth, his tears like rain that falls in sparkling droplets upon her freckled cheeks.

"I love you Aurelie, I have always loved you. Please.. come back to me. We were born for each other and life is meaningless and hollow without you in it.." He whispers against her lips. 

A cry filled with shock and overwhelming grief rips through the air and Slàn falls on her knees across from him, staring down at her niece, emotionless mask shattering as salt glides down her face. Constantin molds Aurelie's cold form further into him, resting his shaking palms upon the flat of her stomach. The flesh beneath grows startlingly hot, as if the beginning of a fire rages within her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! ♡


	11. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In San Matteus Vasco struggles with the memory of leaving De Sardet behind and receives news that changes everything.

**༄ XI.**

Vasco looks tired.

Since arriving in San Matteus he has been stricken with sleeplessness, which grew worse as the days stretched onwards and cast dark, bruised circles beneath his shadowed honey brown eyes. There is no other word that he might use to describe the expression he now bears since _Anemhaid_ except being spent down to the bone, nor to describe his eyes but for aged, as if they have seen too much. He has never felt so utterly _broken_ in all his life at sea. For the first time nightmares keep him up and screaming in the middle of the night, ringing in the ears and rousing from bed all else who slept within the Mother Cardinal's walls.

So, for that morning - another messenger-less, parcel-less morning - he swallows down his discontent, breaking his fast in an uncomfortable state of hushed false-tranquility, and swiftly departs from the palace to begin another long day in the Port Quarter.

Looking upon the palace foyer, the Admiral feels a bitter mixture of gladness and hatred churn and tingle in his breast, like mixing oil and water, black ink and sunshine. To taste it would have made his nose wrinkle, for it would have been both sweet and sour, and one could not be separated from the other for appreciation alone.

That is what his memories of this place is. Strange. No light without shadow. No joy without fear or grief. And, to look upon the large open windows with their delicate, geometric glass patterns, to see the open foyer with the burgundy rugs across marble stone and the deep shade of the oak carved into the twisting railings of the center staircase, to glance upwards at the crystal-laden chandelier, so intricate and so useless, leaves him feeling both yearning and repulsion alike. They remind him immediately of Aurelie.

There is not one moment she does not cross his mind; a phantom temptress of his heart, mind and soul. Where once thoughts of her would be like sailing over crystal calm waters after a turbulent storm, they are now the very heart of one. A twisting, churning, volatile storm that threatens to tear his ship apart and there is little for him to do other than stand there and allow the dark waves to consume him.

_She promised and she always keeps her promises._

Now within his private study in a warehouse by the docks, it is hard not to be ever so slightly dispirited, flipping through page after page, his eyes scanning the lines of text but failing to truly absorb any meaning behind the complex words and calculations.

_This is going nowhere._

Vasco closes the cover of the ledger - a text on the movement of Naut ships around Teer Fradee - and sets it aside. It is not too late to slip out of the study and spend the day patrolling the docks. Watching the waves crescendo and breathing in the perfume of air thick with salt would help soothe his spirit and halt any lingering thoughts of her. At least, that is what he hopes.

On his way out he catches himself staring at the vivid green hue of the far wall covered in ornate patterning and golden light flickers hypnotizingly across its surface and it comes to Vasco that he should have, perhaps, stayed a little longer in _Anemhaid_ to help search for Aurelie. He had been so sure of her fate at the time that he dared not enter the mouth of the volcano.

Vividly, jade green eyes flash before him, ringed red, lashes scattered with diamonds. Her pale, flawless skin had been blotchy and her voice had trembled.

That accursed day she had begged him to stay, terrified and heartbroken over the prospect of stopping Constantin’s reign of horror by ending his life. 

And Vasco had turned away. His greatest mistake. His deepest regret. 

How many hours lying awake, cold and shivering, curled up in his luxury sheets that reeked of smoke and ash, had he spent thinking of nothing but her tears? How his tongue had swollen in his mouth. How his heart had palpated in the back of his throat. How many hours had he spent in the night imagining that it had all gone differently? That for the briefest moment, he had not thought her treacherous and disloyal, all because of the doubt that shone brightly in her eyes. She was hesitant to commit the deed and yet he pushed her and in the end she died because of his blind resolve.

He still hopes she yet lives, hoping that a letter bearing her crest would reach his desk. That she would return to him and he’d hold her and wipe the tears away and forswear the Naut code to be with her. But no, he now clings to nothing but his supposed morals and their echoing terrors. He should have listened, he should have stayed. 

But nothing would change what had happened.

The autumn sky is bright overheard, nary a cloud blemishes its bliss-blue complexion and the sun is like a glowing medallion pinned to a sheet of white paper, sinking as a storm sets in. Branches of lightning light up the alabaster buildings; it is like liquid, golden ore streaks are being forged into forks above his head; wriggling and writhing with the pain of their existence, they flash once, glossy and polished upon a horizon that seem to be stitched with a line of silver. Vasco allows the overpowering scent of salt to wash over his senses as the seagulls wheel and arc above him, their raucous cries ringing off the lighthouse. He watches the ships that line the docks with a heart full of yearning as they bob and loll in the incoming tide, their lights winking saucily with the gentle rise of wave-crests.

༄

It starts to rain as Vasco begins his return journey to the palace.

Trotting over the slick cobblestone, he dips to the side in an effort to hide from the harsh wind and the needle-sharp pelleting of the rain near the sides of the townhouses. The rumbles of distant thunder have been teasing at a distance for a while now, along with the flashing veins of lightning tearing across the sky. But the storm is fully upon San Matteus at last, lightning breaking overhead of him in full fury. Swiftly, he ascends the marble steps and reaches for the oaken palace door, pulling it open and stepping inside, wiping his damp blonde hair back from his tattooed features.

His soggy boots squeak throughout the grand halls as he climbs the various staircases to the apartment wing, leaving droplets of water in his wake.

Down the hall and to the right, he can see light coming from the Cardinal's room and pays it no mind, disappearing into the guest chamber.

_If Aurelie could see me now,_ he thinks to himself with aching fondness, assessing the dampness of his tunic and finding it unacceptable. He peels it off, leaving him dressed in just his undershirt, and leaves it hanging next to the door. Removing his boots, he then pads across the cool tile and stands before the closed balcony. Lightning flashes through the crystal panes and blinds him to most of the colour in the room, but he can still make out the shape of flowers branching out over one of Aurelie's letters that he had taken from their San Matteus townhouse. A letter she had left for him before they had departed for battle. He hadn't the heart to open it now that she is gone.

After successfully guiding the remaining Nauts and their captains from the brutal slaughter beneath the volcano, Vasco guided them through the well-beaten paths of the wild to San Matteus. Many had died from their wounds along the way, while others perished from the continuous attacks of Constantin's corrupted animals. He has never once in all his years of captaining the _Seahorse_ witnessed such a merciless slaughter of his comrades, his family. Though on the verge of shattering under the weight of responsibility, guilt, fury and grief, he pushed onwards until they arrived in the city. He would not - could not think of Aurelie at that time, for fear of losing himself to the tangled web of darkness and despair when he had to assure the safety of the Naut survivors. 

The Mother Cardinal was originally hesitant in allowing them to seek protection within her walls, as she had sacrificed a quarter of her forces to aid in De Sardet's defense of the volcano. With Admiral Cabral aiding with the evacuation of Hikmet, it was up to Vasco to muster up a small degree of charm that he had learned from watching Aurelie negotiate with hostile political adversaries during their travels. It was difficult, especially since he himself had changed much since the battle. He was always frowning and scowling with his downturned eyebrows shadowing the melancholy in his gaze, giving others the impression of a bad temper.

He was, at least, gentle and charming enough to have won over the Mother Cardinal in a matter of days, bumbling around like a large, bashful black shadow. Enough that she offered her guest chambers to Vasco, which he nearly declined. He would be coordinating the Naut fleet while Admiral Cabral was away, so it would be expected that he'd spend his nights either on a ship with his fellow sailors or De Sardet's old apartment. Since _Anemhaid_ he could not even stomach the thought of setting foot aboard a vessel, knowing that memories of his _tempest_ would tear him apart. It was the same for the apartments, of which he now avoids entirely when walking about the city. Thus he had grudgingly accepted the offer and moved into the chambers, gathering what rest he could within the unfamiliar walls before setting out for the Port Quarter each morning.

A small part of him knows that she could have easily survived, as unrivaled with magic as she is with a blade. Had she ended Constantin's vile, twisted heart she would have joined Vasco and the onslaught of animals would have halted. Yet there was nothing. Just an unending, aching silence from the jaws of the Fiery Heart and as he'd stood before it, fully prepared to dive into its depths, he was utterly frozen with fear.

Purging his mind of such thoughts, he falls into the much too large bed beside the window, allowing the velvet softness of the sheets to draw him in. He looks up at the ceiling, cast in the dim lightning of the overcast sky, he feels too exhausted and heavy in his limbs to move. This, he knows, is a feeling of despair and of guilt and of desperate sorrow. Vasco closes his eyes and breaths out a weary sigh before falling into the darkness of night.

༄

The next day is full with making preparations for Admiral Cabral's return. No word has been sent by ship nor by bird of her travels, yet Vasco is unconcerned. She is perhaps the sharpest commander he has ever known and could weather any storm with absolute confidence. It is most likely that she has been preoccupied with the evacuation and has forgotten to send a letter. Though as he makes his way through another rain sodden evening, doubt nags at the back of his mind.

The Admiral halts a few steps away from the ornate gates leading up to the palace as his thoughts trail off into silence. Though he is generally indifferent towards rain, the first thing he thinks of whenever he sees it is sorrow and destruction, or long days crossing the blackened and destroyed wildlands while acidic rain sloshed down from the sky and turned the burn-scarred land to mud. He feels entirely hopeless as he stares off into nothingness and loses himself in the sound of the droplets colliding with puddles and the splashes of boots and the din of quiet and cynical voices whispering. Again, she is in his thoughts, a sorrow in the world for an eternity without ceasing for the desolation it brings his heart. He basks in that stinging, crippling emotion entwined with an aching loss.

His first instinct is anger, to rage against the unfairness of existence, to strike out at the source of his pain and suffering in retribution. Instead he is prone to languishing in his agony as the memory of bright scarlet hair flashes before him.

Vasco shudders, feeling like the cold rain is crystalizing his bones. Every second of every day he feels her with him, entwined like when they had joined, as if she left a part of herself behind resting within his spirit. Often the thought of her invokes the unwelcome remembrance of Constantin, for even as Aurelie became his _Tempest_ , the noble never left her side. Constantin may have thought himself subtle in his affections, but Vasco often caught him gazing upon Aurelie as if she was his whole world and would always pull her into an embrace, or place quick pecks on her cheeks and would chuckle as her ears turned a lovely pink hue. He would not have been quite so bothered if it wasn't for the possessive way Constantin treated Aurelie and how she never once dissuaded him, no matter what Vasco said. He was disgusted when he realized that it was not familial love in which he showed his cousin, but something much darker and lustful. Even the discovery of Aurelie's true parentage did not dull the feeling of discontent, jealousy and rage he felt towards Constantin. But afterwards something changed in her. She started to devote more of her time to care for her ailing cousin and pushed Vasco away. He did not have the heart to keep her from him, knowing that her cousin would perish soon and she could barely hold herself together. As the madness and darkness began to eat away at Constantin's mind, Aurelie grew cold and distant, rejecting even his comfort as she hid herself away from the world.

A little spark of resentment flickers in his breast, but he crushes it beneath his boot-heel without mercy, satisfied as it, once again, goes dark beneath the smothering of guilt and duty.

Vasco shakes his head as his lips slide into a frown. More and more these past few days he has found himself alone with his cursed thoughts, missing her so terribly that it sometimes makes him feel as though he might drop dead from heartache.

༄

Shortly upon entering the palace a Thélème messenger comes to inform that the Mother Cardinal awaits his presence in the throne room and with a sigh, he complies. Best make quick work of whatever whims the woman has.

The Mother Cardinal's throne room is completely filled with nobles and members of the Coin Guard, some going so far as to stand in the back and watch the scene unfold.

And here he is, blonde hair tangled and damp, wearing his typical Naut attire with all their wear and tear, their patches and their stains, his boots scuffed and muddied from their muddling around in the morning talking to various Naut captains in the Port Quarter. Compared with the well groomed, velvet-tunic-donning lowest of nobles - and the even more flamboyantly and immaculately dressed Mother Cardinal - he looks scruffy and ratty and nothing like the suitor of the infamous Lady De Sardet.

As he enters, even those who are seated stand. All eyes stare, wide and stricken, as if having seen some unimaginable horror. It is strange but humorous to realize, as he walks towards the front of the silent room, all heads slowly turning to watch as he passes by, that he has grown accustomed to the gawking all because of Aurelie's influence. Before he would have felt uncomfortable and out of his depth, especially since he hated every kind of noble, but it was her that made him see what utter fools they all are.

In the centre of the room stands the familiar silhouette of a wounded man.

Vasco feels the dread in his belly, churning and tightening as though it is twisted as a wet dishrag might be to squeeze out the water. Something isn't right about this.

A few Thélème priests buzz around his friend like flies, healing the many wounds that decorate his skin. The swelling slowly leaves his silver-blue eyes, but bloody spit still drools from his slack jaw. The last he heard Kurt and half the Coin Guard left to defend Hikmet against a possible attack from Constantin. The fact that he returned, alone and badly beaten is enough to put Vasco on edge.

"Admiral, I am glad to see you have finally joined us," the Mother Cardinal addresses him by his new title, a grim expression breaking through the unyielding mask she usually wears. "Report everything you have told me to Admiral Vasco, Commander. It is quite a worrisome story." She elaborates no further and the Naut swallows the thickness gathering in his throat.

With a pained grunt, Kurt turns his steely eyes upon Vasco. "It's De Sardet..." he trails off, voice trembling through the silence of the throne room. "She's alive and with Constantin."

"Impossible," he can not help but retort, clutching his tunic tightly and shaking his head in denial.

Part of him wants to run for the back door and sick up in the hallway if only to rid himself of that bubbling feeling of bile hotly rising upwards in his throat. Kurt would not lie to him, he knows but how... how could she survive the battle and why is she with Constantin? It does not make any sense. If she is alive she would have returned to him, surely. She would be fighting side by side with him against her cousin for the sake of Teer Fradee.

"How?" He whispers into the chamber, desperately searching Kurt's gaze for any sign of falsehood.

"I have no idea. But as far as I could tell she and Constantin were closer than ever and her appearance has changed. She now has a crown of sticks protruding out of her head like the boy and weird, swirling orange veins. She resembles a native as much as he does now." He responds, clearly struggling to keep the disdain out of his voice. "My best guess is that Constantin made her an offer she couldn't refuse or..."

"He somehow manipulated her into joining him..." Vasco finishes. It is, indeed, worse than he had hoped for and it makes a terrible amount of sense, as much as he would like to deny the possibility. If Constantin could be so corrupted that he would commit the heinous crime such as murder of innocents, why not seduce Aurelie to his side? He must have used some sort of poison or native magic to control her. It is the only explanation Vasco can fathom. She once told him that the taint of shadow fills his veins and pushes Constantin's mind to the brink of insanity. Perhaps he passed on some of that taint to her.

"She would never willingly be on Constantin's side." The Admiral states firmly, pointedly ignoring the look of doubt Kurt casts his way. No one knows her like he does. Kurt included.

"We know nothing of the native magics," the Mother Cardinal interjects, "so it is entirely possible she has been corrupted like the beasts you informed me of."

"There is more," Kurt continues, "Constantin laid siege to Hikmet shortly after Governor Burhan abducted Lady De Sardet at a parlay. The goal was to use her as leverage and for Aphra to find a cure for whatever cursed sickness he inflicted upon her. I'm not sure how but Constantin used some sort of magic to tear apart the walls with vines. The city was overrun within hours and while a few ships were able to depart before the hordes reached the port, all the soldiers and civilians that were left behind were slaughtered. Constantin left none alive."

  
  


“That heathen!” The Mother Cardinal spits with venom laced in her tone. “And what of the governor?”

“We were on our way to one of the last ships still docked when our party was ambushed. Something.. Demonic came over Constantin and I watched as he crushed Burhan's windpipe with his bare hands.” Kurt reports, shuddering from the mere memory. The Mother Cardinal struggles to keep the shock from her firm expression while Vasco’s is openly startled. What possessed the man to do such a thing? My _tempest_ , he must be violent with her as well. Though he is well aware that Constantin would not harm a hair on her head, he is mad and unpredictable. Who knows what he is capable of now.

“And De Sardet?” The Admiral asks hesitantly, noting the grimness of Kurt’s features. 

“Governor Burhan ordered me to kill her in the hopes that her death would stall Constantin’s war. She was unexpectedly weakened when I found her and we both duelled. I successfully struck the killing blow, but we know De Sardet. I do not believe she has died from her wounds.” The commander admits and Vasco’s heart aches from the lingering sorrow in his voice. He knows the feeling well. Because he had placed his beliefs over loyalty as well. Even though he never intended for harm to befall her, he still left Aurelie behind in the aftermath of the battle and it had cloven a gap between them. Broken the close bond they’d once shared.

A bond, he hopes, might still be fixed.

He clutches the tunic in his hand tighter. Then relaxes and smoothes the fabric, hoping he hasn't wrinkled it too badly. One battle at a time, he thinks when a feeling of despair at the enormity of that task rises up in his chest, threatening to once again bury the small bit of courage he’d scrounge up from the wreckage of ash and blood in his spirit. Tampering down the feeling, he addresses Kurt.

“Do you believe she can still be saved?”

Never has he seen such an expression upon Kurt’s face. He looks so broken, as if shattered glass litters his heart. He hates that expression with a zeal, knowing that it bodes ill. It strikes a blow straight to his chest that leaves him breathless.

_No._

Vasco wishes that he could swallow the anger that boils at the back of his throat, sickly and sour. He wishes he could have that ignorance. That freedom. He knows deep down that Aurelie can be saved, no matter what Kurt might believe. Perhaps he can get in contact with Aphra if she survived the siege and work with her to develop a cure for Constantin’s corruption. 

Still, that does not quell the dark cloud of rage burning in his chest and the Admiral turns swiftly away from him and the Mother Cardinal, fists clenching at his sides. Silver-blue eyes watch him as he storms away and slips through the doorway, slamming it shut in his wake. It feels like they are still there, watching and judging, eyes resting between his shoulder blades even as he reaches the top of the stairs. Each board creaks under the weight of his heavy feet and he grits his teeth when he enters his room and rips his sodden tunic from his chest, hurling it across the room. Breathing heavily, his golden brown irises catch sight of the letter that beckons him from the dresser where it neatly sits. Stalking over, he picks it up and desperately tears it open, scanning over the delicate loops of Aurelie’s writing.

_Dearest Vasco,_

_The battle draws ever nearer and I am filled with doubt. I know that I must carry out my duty for the sake of Tír Fradì and the Congregation of Merchants, yet now I am feeling as though the price is too high. All my life I have devoted myself to duty and the wellbeing of others without once taking my own feelings into consideration. The Prince d’Orsay and Lady d’Orsay raised me to believe that if I do what is expected of me, I will bring honor to my family and raise myself to a respectful status. The Princess d’Orsay - my mother - taught me to trust in my heart, no matter how hard the choice was._

_Therefore I must admit to you that I have not been completely honest. I have already decided what I must do and it is to make the selfish choice and follow my heart._

_Vasco, I will not kill Constantin. For once I am trusting my feelings and they tell me that I love him in a way I never thought possible. Thus I have decided to join him and perhaps attempt to lead him away from the madness and darkness that clouds his mind._

_Please understand that I have not made this decision lightly and have no intention to hurt you. I did not wish for us to end this way, truly I had thought we would spend the rest of our days sailing the sea. It simply was not meant to be._

_Live your life freely on the seas, as you are meant to and know that you shall always have a special place in my heart._

_Signed,_

_Lady Aurelie De Sardet_

_Legate of the Congregation of Merchants_

A long, tense silence fills the room as Vasco’s face darkens with a deep frown nearing a scowl. His heart races with fury, his fingers trembling as they squeeze the flimsy paper. Clearly Constantin had begun his corruption of Aurelie long before _Anemhaid_ and it had settled deep into her bones at the time she wrote this letter. There is no other explanation, this is simply not the woman he intimately knows. 

“I’ll find you and kill you for this Constantin.” He snarls into the dark, knowing he must do all he can to save her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some creative liberties in making Vasco an admiral, which happened shortly after Anemhaid. I had this chapter in mind right from the beginning of this story, and I hope I haven't scared away any Vasco lovers. Worry not, he'll become a prominent figure in the storyline. Whether in a good or bad way remains to be seen...
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> The next chapter is split into two POV's.


	12. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constantin struggles with the loss of Aurelie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is split into two POV's.

**༄ XII. **

It was bizarrely easy to hide how torn up inside he felt. How truly unstable he had become.

Mere hours ago he was knelt upon the ivory stone of the palace courtyard, feeling the warmth of Aurelie's blood as it seeped into his skin, her motionless body in his arms. In that moment he desired nothing more than to lay on that tainted ground beside her and curl up within her frozen embrace, if only to stave off the demons, grief and utter darkness that fought for dominance over his broken heart and frail mind. He had not wished to leave her side, but Slàn insisted that he lead the charge against the Coin Guard barracks, the last safe haven for all who yet dwell within Hikmet.

His restraint was hanging by a thread but nevertheless he obliged, ordering her and Petrus to take Aurelie into the palace and make her comfortable until his return.

Things had changed within Constantin that Slàn and Petrus did not see through the vicious smirks and venomous glint in his glowing irises. Dealing with their own shock and grief, they did not look deeper into his own turmoil. They suspected nothing.

And perhaps if they had, they would have attempted to lock Constantin up and keep him far away from the field of battle. Far away from the accursed Coin Guard. Far away from temptation. Far away... from _himself_.

But he was here, standing in the midst of chaos that might as well have been a mirror image of the churning, violent clash occupying his thoughts, with thick clouds of dissent and darkness reflected back into the twisted fantasia of horror. He watched with narrowed, distant eyes as his animals, _nadáig_ and clan warriors rained down upon the remaining civilians and Guard within the barracks, slaughtering them without mercy, breaking their way into the main entrance. Watched as they broke through the wooden doors and spilled the blood of the few guards trying to hold back their tide of death and give the civilians - the innocents - a chance to escape.

He watched as they broke through the line of armed warriors garbed in ebony and began the true massacre, taking anyone and anything in their path down into the abyss of hell.

It was very hard to sympathize. As chaotic and terrifying as the outside world was, he could still stand on his own two feet. Still had solid ground upon which to rest his weight. Still kept his tenuous balance.

Inside, everything was off-kilter. Tilted and broken. Inside, he felt as though two feuding factions were boiling into a civil war. Cold and warm air clashed and burned through his body and mind, lightning flashing jaggedly through the blackness of contaminated thoughts. A downpour of depression settled itself like a blanket across his spirit and doused, driving out all the will and all the power and all the desire from his blood and leaving a shivering, whimpering afterimage in the wake of destruction. All it offered was pain. There was room for nothing else but that shuddering quake of complete aloneness and hopelessness and agony eating holes through his core with a searing, acidic touch.

It was a storm of emotion far more terrifying than anything the outside world had to offer, crumbling him apart from the inside out. 

Constantin stood and observed the snobbish nobles scattering in panic, only to be cornered and picked off like lame animals surrounded by wolves, easy prey for hungry predators.

He envied them. Envied that emptiness in their eyes. Envied that their strife and fight was ended. Because he could no longer think, let alone function as a person. Sprouting poison-thorned vines, launching them where most vulnerable his opponents appeared was an easy task. But even that is beyond his capacity. Pretending was beyond his capacity. Even fighting was beyond his capacity.

Everything was beyond his coherent mind but thinking about her - _she who had been dead for hours, alone and without him at her side. He is filled with her, memories of her surreal eyes and her wrinkled smile_ \- and about endless, useless war - _so terrified were these innocents, but they had not seen their comrades dismembered for scientific research, their lovers stabbed through the heart by a friend_ \- and about exhaustion - _he was so ready to burn out, for the wild hurricane blowing itself across his mind to dissipate so that he could lie down beside her and imagine that there was warmth in her pale arms._

She was a beacon of light within a mind that was overwhelmed with darkness and in its place was just the pain of being ripped apart slowly, piece by piece. Of bitter winds raking their icy fingers across his soul until he wanted to curl up and plead. Of unceasing rain pouring and pouring until he thought he might drown. A never-ending storm that derived its sole purpose and pleasure in tormenting him to the brink of insanity.

"Your Excellency!" A lone voice broke through the tangle of his thoughts and stood out amongst the cacophony of screams and discord that surrounded him. He stood still, wondering curiously if he had just imagined Petrus' cry before silver flashed before his bewildered gaze and the familiar, wrinkled visage of the priest came into view. Petrus halted a few meters away from him, his chest heaving as he fought for breath and wiped away the sweat that beaded his brow.

Constantin's tone was laced with venom as he addressed the old man, lips curled into a snarl. "Why are you not guarding De Sardet?"

Petrus glanced up and he absently wondered if he had been crying, for his eyes were puffy and red. However there is no sadness within his frazil-blue irises but bewilderment and... hope?

"I know not what holy or unholy power has been unleashed within Aurelie, but she is alive! She started to glow and -"

Constantin did not stay to listen to the rest of his words before he bolted into the alleyway, boots slipping upon the blood and entrails that glistened beneath him. Hope bloomed in his chest as he sailed past the chaos and light awakened within his chest once more, spurring him forth towards the Hikmet palace.

  
  


༄ 

_She stood alone in the raging fires of night, bright silver dancing, tattooing and changing before her eyes. She watched the flames leap and hiss, always reaching feverishly out for her, as if desperately trying to grab and take ahold of her fleeting shadow. And oh, how beautifully they swayed, beckoning her, enticing her, and each time she looked away._

_But this time she took a step and reached out with her pale, trembling hands and let them be immersed within the silvery inferno. She let the blazing lips kiss her hands and pull her further into the everlasting fire, feeling the burn of her flesh like the tender touches of a lover._

_Fully engorged within the fire, her dreams were filled with visions of_ him.

_Of his golden eyes breaking through the candlelight as beacons, radiant and watchful, finding him and catching him alight beneath her skin. Of his voice saying her name, his pale lips parting in a smile. They were soft where they touched her face and her hands. Soft but burning. He pulled away, slipped through her fingers and dipped his toes into shadow._

_And then the smile disappeared, melting off his features like wet paint running down a canvas into a mottled mess._

_Then the fire illuminated his silhouette through the thin, saphire tunic, bursting it into flame, burning up his legs in a torrent of silver and ivory. His eyes leaked black with tears and soot, streaking dark down his cheeks. He lifted his hands, reached for the flames, trying to put himself out._

_Then he screamed -_

༄ 

Aurelie awakens to the sound of her own gasping breaths. The coppery light of dusk streams through the open window opposite of her bed, catching harshly upon her stone blade where it rests upon the wall. It's smooth surface glints blindingly, flashing into her eyes and her whole body shudders as she recalls the glow of Kurt's steel armor in the afternoon sun. As she recalls the foreboding red gleam on pale silver as he thrust his sword straight into her chest. An unrecognizable mass of white and red gore had surrounded her as their army laid waste to the city below the pristine white steps of the palace. Greedy animals tearing off meat of the slain. Struggling not to slip on the pulverized flesh and spilt blood as she fought against her former mentor. Grimy claws tearing the heraldry down, ripping the vibrant emerald fabric and dying the cloth with blood of the Bridge Alliance. Recalling such horror twists her gut mercilessly and Aurelie fights against the urge to vomit.

She slowly sits up in bed, groaning with pain as she scrubs harshly at her eyes as if to remove the traces of nightmares which had brought her screaming back to reality.

No amount of grief and no amount of guilt would change the past. No amount of wishing or dreaming would bring those fallen to life.

She knows that. She _knows_ that.

But she feels the shadow of grief upon her heart and the sting of guilt beneath her skin all the same.

A weariness sets into her limbs, leaving them feeling as heavy as if slabs of stone are carelessly nailed onto her exhausted body in place of arms and legs. Her watery jade eyes feel the burn of fatigue, and her mind the light-headed haze of need for more rest and recovery. Aurelie can feel her fingers trembling harshly, her vision blurring in and out of focus as her fingers tighten around the silken fabric.

She remembers it all.

The bite of cold steel sliding between her ribs, Kurt's silver blue pools begging for her forgiveness. Aphra's dusty visage morphing into a cruel smile and the cold, aching loneliness of knowing she would never again see Constantin's carefree grin or feel the tender touch of his fingers upon her skin.

The former legate squeezes her eyes shut against the sudden, treacherous burn of tears teasing at her lashes. Her brows furrow upwards sharply, painfully contorting and twisting with the feelings writhing in her mind. Against her palm, she feels the bite of her fingernails pushing into her own flesh as if they are teeth trying to carve out the agony of the mere _thought_ of never seeing Constantin again.

It takes a monumental effort not to break beneath the terror of dying and of dreams turned to ash. 

Sitting amongst the sea of emerald cushions and soft linens that bear the familiar gold Bridge Alliance insignia, she barely manages to keep herself from falling apart, like a doll ripping at the seams, under the weight of all she had thought lost.

Aurelie knows that she had well and truly died. She had felt the freezing embrace of death and can vividly recall the silver fire thereafter, along with memories of cruel laughter and screams and phantom pains slicing into her flesh.

Then how is she alive now?

She cautiously peers into the dark chamber, noting the pine green curtains that block all but one window. A small fire flickers in the hearth across the room, bathing the walls with orange light. A lump builds in her throat as she glances down at her chest and carefully peels back the blood-stained jerkin that hangs loosely about her thin form. Illuminated by the nearby fire the skin between her breasts is smooth and pale with light tangerine swirls dancing across the surface. No grotesque wound is in sight and she releases a sigh of relief from that knowledge.

Raising a hand, she pinches at the bridge of her nose, rubbing in deep circles just under the corners of her eyes to combat the fatigue induced headache crawling its way through her skull inch by agonizing inch.

It is then that the door to the small, elaborate chamber creaks open. Swiftly, she lowers her hand and raises her head, face instinctively falling into that neutrally genial expression that so often she had used to soothe tempers and maintain peaceful conversation. The flash of ruby hair comes first, and then her aunt's familiar features flicker into view of the firelight.

Slàn looks incredibly weary as she makes her way into the room, her movements uncharacteristically stiff. Her gaze is a dull and depthless green, as if layered by a glass dome set with sorrow. Her native apparel is speckled with dried blood and other crusty fluids, some patches of leather are missing from where she assumes a blade might have sliced through but the _doneigad_ shows no hint of suffering.

Slàn seems to almost throw herself down into the bed of silks, casting herself fully in the yellow-orange glow of the hearth fire. She gazes upon Aurelie with a sort of reverence that leaves her skin prickling with unease and she wraps her arms around her niece's slender shoulders and draws her close. 

“It is a miracle!” Her aunt cries against her, tears falling like tiny raindrops on Aurelie's shoulder. “I saw the fire, _carants_ , a fire that consumed your whole spirit in silver light. I had… I had thought you dead until that light poured forth from your wounds!”

“I felt the heat of the flames while being lost in the dark. I am so happy to have returned, though I do not know how that came to be.” She replies, relaxing into Slàn’s embrace and breathing in her familiar scent of pine. 

Her aunt leans back and tenderly wipes the tears that trail down Aurelie’s flushed visage. “You are strong like your _mátir_. Only those of the strongest hearts with the deepest connection to Tír Fradì could possibly allude death itself…” She trails off with a slight tremble, glancing away from her as if in effort to hide the shadows that creep into her expression.

“What has happened?” Aurelie asks hesitantly, feeling unease prickling at her skin. “Where is Constantin? I fear he may have done something terrible in his grief over my absence.”

She fights to keep the gnawing ache of fear and worry from clouding her tone, though she feels herself frowning before she can hide the expression. Still, something about Slàn’s sudden change in demeanor, about the way she looks down at her hands, about the sigh that follows, a long gust of breath that makes her shoulders hunch in around her, seems ominous. 

Leaning just a hair closer, the _doneigad_ says “He is at the Coin Guard barracks dealing with the _renaigse_ survivors. It was a slaughter, _carants_. On his way to find you he was consumed by uncontrollable bloodlust and desperation, he cut through all in his path to get to you as if possessed by a demon. The Lions did not stand a chance. Women, children, Coin Guards, Lion soldiers, merchants… all were killed to rescue you. I sent Petrus to find him when I had first noticed you awakening..”

If anyone later asked, Aurelie would say it is now that she discovers the darkness of the world - not within the shadows and gloom creeping in the wake of the chaos and destruction _they_ have wrought - but within her own heart.

Guilt, she should feel it. Remorse, she should quiver with. Redemption, she should seek in prayers to those who suffered and died because of Constantin's love for her, and her love for him. Yet she can not regret and can not be sorry for what they have done.

“I know, Slàn. I saw the carnage upon the palace steps. While it was horrific and I would have liked to find a more diplomatic solution, governor Burhan forced his - _our_ hand.” 

“And what of Constantin? I hate the _renaigse_ , you know this, but you did not witness the entire battle.. My dear Aurelie, he crushed Burhan’s throat with his hand. I have never seen something so… savage in all my years as a _doneigad_.”

After a few moments of tense silence, she finds it within herself to bring forth the truth with a soft, choked voice. “Constantin has suffered like no other in his lifetime. I know of his darkness and deepest temptations and I still love him. Not as a cousin or friend or god.. But as a _minundhanem_. Being locked away, I finally realized just how much he means to me and what Tír Fradì means to us. I have faith that he will do what is right in the end and that somehow we will overcome the glimmers of madness that still dwell within him.”

Slàn pauses, facing away. But Aurelie can see the faint tremble of her aunt’s hands. And she continues on.

“I just want to be happy. And Constantin’s smile… it lights up my whole world. We will make Tír Fradì a land of peace and no bloodshed, a land free of _renaigse_ influence. But it will not happen overnight and I will need you and Constantin both to achieve that dream.”

Slàn’s head lowers, her fingers raking through her ruby locks harshly. “Ah, Aurelie.. What if it is not so simple?”

“Then we will overcome the obstacles together. Have faith in us Slàn, please. Once San Matteus is dealt with we will be free.”

The _doneigad_ says nothing. She knows better than that and quickly switches the topic to the settling of her clan and the movement of supply chains from New Sérène to Hikmet. _Sisaig cnameis_ has been instrumental in keeping their forces well supplied. Aurelie’s thoughts wander to Constantin. She desperately hopes that the words she had spoken are not false. She has never lost faith in Constantin, but even she admits that this may not be a mere lapse. His mind will always be shadowed by madness and there is naught she can do other than offer him comfort and encourage him to remain a tight grip on his sanity.

༄ 

Shortly after Slàn leaves the sound of frantic footsteps echoes in the hallway outside the door. It opens with a slight _creak_ and she turns to face the noise and nearly cries out with relief upon seeing Constantin's face.

Aurelie could pretend that, when he enters the emerald chambers and beholds her with his eyes wide and his scarred face morphing into shock, it is not silently spoken words of impossible miracles which makes his gaze catch upon her face, unable to move, unable to blink. She knows that it is purely love, disbelief and the bitter ache of grief which holds him immobile for what seems like decades stacked upon decades, the trees growing taller and wilder, that keeps him from looking only at her beauty and no one and nothing else, just as her yearning heart desires.

Normally, the pale gold of his eyes gleam like a knife in the moonlight, sharp and filled with resolve. However, those normally pristine and white-hot orbs are cool and watery, darkened to the shadowy pale yellow of an overcast dawn sky upon fields of wheat just before the strike of rain. 

Their fire has diminished.

Seeing him once more after having come to terms with being lost amidst the dark flames of night fills her with bliss and a strange, shadowy sort of ecstasy, with the tiny taste of power that writhes and curls beneath her flesh, power that sucks her in and rots away her holiness until she is naught but a demon, enslaved to her own greedy whims.

Aurelie is not as those demons, but neither is she pure and free of sin. For it has not been solely riveted desire and longing and love which cements Constantin silently before her in the dusk, but also enchantment of the most real and devious nature.

And then, without warning, Aurelie feels their hearts snapping into place. That deep, dark cluster of shadow that always lingers in the back of her thoughts is suddenly and inexplicably filled with light, sending heat shuddering throughout her frame. Like two shattered pieces coming together, as if their minds fuse and her fingers abruptly go numb from the sensation.

She can hear the whisper of Constantin's voice stroking softly across her dazed thoughts - his lips curling into a broad smile.

"Aurelie..." He nearby sobs her name, the tears gathering in his glowing irises despite the look of wonder and relief on his face. It sends burning warmth shooting through her veins. All the way down to her fingers and toes, leaving them tingling. Through her heart, sending it pounding in the back of her throat, echoing in her ears. All the way up to her cheeks, filling them with a hot flush of blood.

His upper lip is tempting her with the urge to kiss him right then and there.

The sound of footsteps reaches her ears as his form draws closer and closer. Hands grasp her own, their warmth and their familiar calluses stroking over her trembling fingers and soft palms. Arms wrap their way around her back and waist, pulling her close until their bodies touch, until she rests just so against a broad chest of rippling muscle. Aurelie's face burrows instinctively into the hollow between shoulder and throat, her breath finally coming in long, wet gasps.

Even the scent, a hint of charcoal and a dusting of pine and the metallic hint of a swordsman, is just as she recalls.

She thought she’d never see him again.

Tears well in her eyes even as her arms come up to desperately grasp about Constantin's neck. Even as her fingers tangle into the familiar pale gold curls and pulls them gently. Even as she finally manages to sob out his name and press her lips to that resplendent smile.

“This.. cannot be. I know of the wonders of native sorcery but this is simply impossible. My fair Aurelie, returned to me when I had thought her lost.” He murmurs against her lips. There is more to his voice now than sorrow and memory. There is flame and the present moment. There is the fading of tears beneath awakening, scorching heat. So easily his voice can _burn_. Can set her flesh alight. Can strike a flint to her blood.

“I was so lost and fearful without you Constantin. Within that cell where they imprisoned me, I was overcome by this feeling of emptiness and loss. Never have I felt that way in all my adventures but the _mere_ thought of never seeing you again drove me to the brink.” Aurelie reveals.

“I felt the same way,” Constantin replies while tracing his fingertips over the delicate swirls that dance across her jaw and she leans into the touch. “I-I love you Aurelie. I almost… gave myself to the madness and darkness of grief. I…”

“Hush love,” she whispers soothingly against him. “Stay with me tonight, like when we were children. Let us rest before we speak of such things. I have missed you so much.”

A sad smile, grateful for silent understanding and comfort turns into a sultry smirk of invitation and daring. He wordlessly kicks off his boots and lays down beside her before pulling her small body close against his. For the moment Aurelie can not bring herself to wonder further or to care about the consequences of today. All about her is silver and golden light, and she feels nothing but Constantin’s warmth burning away all the dark thoughts that yet linger. What she feels for him right now is so great as to be painful. So great as to be destructive. He is consuming her entirely, the pressure crushing her inwards and pulling her apart. Yet she holds onto him all the same, as if afraid he might disappear.

" _Cair to_ Constantin." She murmurs, watching him fall into slumber with lips slightly parted.

And then she too, falls into darkness and silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Mátir | "Mother"  
> Carants | Friend / friend of the clan  
> Lions | English term used by natives for the Bridge Alliance  
> Cair to | "I love you"
> 
> Next up is Aurelie's POV.
> 
> Thank you for reading! The eventual smut will no longer be eventual soon. ;D


	13. Intertwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intertwined and slowly unraveling all at once...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the fic earns its smut tag! I hope you guys enjoy.

**༄ XIII.**

Aurelie feels her consciousness rise to the surface, her body arching into a languid stretch as she blinks against the silvery light flashing across her features. Nestled against her spine is the warm, solid form of Constantin and she stirs within his gentle embrace, eliciting a sigh from him as she shifts beneath the sheets. It is all too surreal, to have him here with her.

Against the nape of her neck, she feels first the warmth of his breath and then the tender kiss of his lips. "Aurelie... is it truly you or just a phantom of my weary mind?" He asks softly against her skin, his voice low and rumbling through his chest, pressing flush against her back. It leaves her breathless.

"Nay, I am here.." She soothes, and jumps with surprise when he abruptly tears himself away from her and sits up, placing his palms on her naked shoulders and squeezing them. Her belly churns as she notices the mix of apprehension and grief riddled within his golden pools.

His arms tremble as he sucks in a harsh breath and says, "I must be honest with you. Seeing you there, bathed in your own blood… it brought forth the memories of those days I spent longing for death as the Malichor devoured me. The blinding, biting pain and the endless days of sitting on that damnable chair, awaiting your return on baited breath. In moments when the agony was too unbearable I would imagine your pretty smile and fall into depression when I realized that I would never see it again.”

She pulls back, looking upon his face that is now whiter than spilt milk. Seeing the way his teeth cruelly slice against his lower lip, the way his eyes look down to avoid her gaze, the little dent forming between his brows as they furrow as if in pain.

"I couldn’t stand to watch you suffer Constantin, I had to leave and find a way to treat the Malichor. I longed to nurse you through the pain, but what could I have done?" Aurelie whispers, gently lifting his chin and tracing the sharpness of his jawline. Her regard pulls his eyes up to meet her own as her fingers move to caress his cheek tenderly. "I am no doctor. I had to find a cure, and I thought Catasach..."

"He may have healed me and soothed a few pains, but he was not the cure..." She can see the helpless gathering of tears, closer to the surface than what she has rarely seen, held back but still audible in the straining shake of his voice, still tangible in the way he trembles beneath her touch. "You were the cure Aurelie, and I wanted to die without you. You were with Vasco or off helping the natives, leaving me alone in my misery. Without you I still felt that shadow of pain in my body and mind, I needed you more than I needed air..."

"Constantin?" As he speaks, his voice rattles more and more, deepening and thickening, until he can no longer hold back the tears. And she longs to soothe his clearly troubled heart in any way she can. "Hush, my dearest heart, take your time. It.. it can wait if you need to stop."

But he shakes his head. "You deserve to know. I almost lost you again, my lucky star and was fully prepared to burn the world to ash and myself along with it. Aurelie, you are my undying light who shines through the darkness in my heart and I do not blame you for leaving my side when I was suffering. In _Anemhaid_ you could have easily slipped that knife into my chest and merrily rejoined your companions and that Naut captain. Yet you joined me instead, you believed in me and never gave up on me. The things that I had done when I thought you lost.. The streets ran with the blood of innocents, so dark was my grief. The faith you had in me was for naught.... "

Hearing such things, she should be terrified. But she knew all of this, could feel it in her bones when she awakened. Aurelie has always known what Constantin is capable of, she has always known that he often struggles with morality and the madness that taunts him at every corner. Yet her faith in him will never tremble, never shatter no matter what he does. Carefully, she reaches out, her hand grasping at his own, intertwining with his lithe fingers, pulling him forward and down. Gratefully, he rests his head on her shoulder, huddling into her despite being so much larger in size, so much stronger in body. He hides his face against her collarbone and weeps quietly. Only the tiny hitches in his breath and the hot dampness upon her bare skin gives him away as she combs her fingers through his golden mane and waits.

Waits until he takes a deep but shaky breath. "I fear you may not forgive me for the atrocities I had inflicted upon Hikmet. The madness it.. consumed me..," he whispers into the veil of her hair, the softness of her skin.

Aurelie is forever grateful for the moon's cold rays creeping across her body and casting glimmering white designs against the intricate emerald patterns of the walls and soft sheets, because the darkness of hearing the confession in his raw, whispered voice creeps deeply into her heart. She can only assume the mass carnage he had wrought in her name was horrific and it makes her feel slightly ill. But he is still her Constantin. Silly, beautiful, sorrowful Constantin...

She cannot bear the thought of a life without him. 

Her hands clench tightly at his hair, pricking her skin on the sharp branches protruding from his scalp. She holds him close so that she feels his breath, feels the expansion of his ribs and the shudder of his sighs and the shakes of his sobs.

Feels that he is real and alive.

If Aurelie is being honest, she does not know if she would have done any differently had Constantin been taken in her place. She would have released fire and ruin upon the guilty and innocent of Hikmet, if only to be with him once again.

"I love you Constantin. You are my heart, my _minundhanem_. I have loved you since we were children; fleeing from your mother into the gardens, seeking my bed after nasty fight with your father and even running to me when you’ve made a mess after indulging on a fleeting whim. I know you and knew what I was getting into when I bound myself alongside you. I will always love you Constantin, no matter what you or I do in the future. We have always been together and that will never change."

For a long moment, he remains stuck in silent contemplation. But then he deflates against her, tension draining as his shoulders slump forward, curling him further into her embrace. His arms wrap around her, the fingers of his shaking hands tangling in the ends of her loose scarlet curls and twisting them gently. "I fear what I might do if I ever thought you lost again..."

He is giving her an out. He knows that, often in the past, she has heard too much and wishes to un-learn whatever secret nuance of darkness and despair she has uncovered with her curiosity. But not this time.

"I love you, _minundhanem_ ," she repeats. "Nothing that happens in the future shall tear me away from your side. We are in this together, as we were meant to be."

They stay that way, wrapped together as moonlight creeps farther and farther along the bed and the floorboards, the only sound in the room the softness of muffled cries. Until finally, Constantin raises his head with a deep sigh. The remains of his quiet tears are wiped away with the edge of the sheets, though the redness lingers around the rim of his eyes, half hidden beneath pale blonde lashes. Leaning down, he presses their forms together, forehead to forehead, sharing quiet breaths between their lips, so close that all Aurelie would need to do is lean forward to meet him skin to skin in a kiss.

She gives in to the desire, capturing his mouth with hers, delighting in the sweet taste of him only to part with red tinted lips. She feels her cheeks flush as they lay so close, staring into each other's eyes. "I love you too, Aurelie." He clears his throat, face heating. “I want to stay by your side, forever and always, with you until the world unravels and the stars crumble to dust and all that is real is dissolved into darkness.."

She lets out a tiny, watery laugh, feeling her own jade eyes sting with the first hint of tears. "Oh Constantin, if we were in Sérène that would sound like a marriage proposal."

“Perhaps it is, in a way…”

༄

Aureli does not know how much time has passed as they lay there together and she cannot find it in herself to care. In the room that is of twilight and shadow, the silver glow of the moon floods in through the crystal windows, creating an ethereal aura about Constantin's pale skin. Gone is the sorrow from his honey gaze, leaving something dark and primal in its wake that causes a shiver to run up her spine. The tips of his fingers are electric against the soft flesh of her shoulder, sending tingles in a frenzy of static.

In her truest of heart of hearts, she knows exactly what she wants in this moment. That she wants nothing more than him. Like this. Beautiful and wild and utterly hers. The side of him that no one else but she will ever get to witness, will ever get to savour. She wants him, _all_ of him and if she asks, he would swear himself to her without so much as a droplet of doubt.

"Kiss me, Constantin.." She whispers into the dark.

It is as if he was waiting for her to ask. For in an instant she feels his broad hand at the nape of her neck, sliding through her scarlet curls, tilting her face upwards. Her whole throat is bared to him, her nightgown slipping down her shoulder and riding low over the swell of her breasts. His eyes darken rapidly nearly to the hue of raw gold as they rest upon her parting lips.

He kisses her and she thinks she could have kissed him forever.

Gentle brushes of lips deepen into breath stealing dives into eachothers mouths. One of her hands curls in his nightshirt, clutching the fabric hard right where his heart pounds, beating against the pulse of her wrist, just as frantic as her own. She can feel that rhythm now in his kisses and he gasps as he pulls away. She can feel it in the way his thumb circles the back of her neck and then the pace with which his palm slips down her throat to her bare shoulder, stroking lightly with callused fingers.

He rises on his knees, towering over her yet utterly consumed by her and rolls them so that she lays her on her back in the downy cloud of bedding, her hair haloing her features, blood-red against the vibrant flush of her cheeks. Between kisses, on bated breath, he pauses to let her protest if she would allow the cage of his body over her own. The way his arms move to bracket her shoulders and how his knees rest on either side of her legs, the broad length of his torso boxing her in from above.

She does not want to stop. Her hand tugs at his hair, and he returns his mouth to hers. 

Slipping into her, breathing into her and sucking the breath out of her. Constantin comes to rest upon his right elbow to free his left hand, and all she can think to do is moan deeply when the hot weight of his palm rests on her side and slides upwards, burning even through her gown, until it cups the side of her breast.

Without breaking their kiss, he thumbs the hardness of her nipple and Aurelie jolts, gasping at the ferocity of the sensation, parting their lips as her eyes flash open.

"Ahh, you are so sensitive..." he murmurs softly between panting breaths.

"Only when you are the one touching me," she answers just as breathlessly and lets her hands slide from his hair over his shoulders, then across the planes of his chest.

A burning sensation erupts in her belly and slips down between her thighs. It is a sensation she is familiar with, the fire of arousal and the tingling sensitivity of her intimate flesh, of which at times Vasco had satiated.

But it has never been like this. Like she might combust, burst into flames and drift away as ash on the wind. Like the heat of his spirit is white-hot against her cool softness, urging her on, egging her desire into a full fledged deluge of need.

"Take off your clothes, Constantin," she whispers against his lips.

The answering desire in his bright golden irises does not dissipate even as he sits up so that the candlelight and watery rays of the moon drifting in the window fight to dye his skin both silver and gold. "I am not a pretty sight," he tells her, his voice rumbling lower than it ever has before, rougher and huskier and altogether leaving her trembling in primal instinct.

"I want to see you," she replies. She wants to see all of him, beautiful or not.

And he was not lying. His nightshirt comes off and it is the first time she has seen Constantin bare chested. Scars left behind by the malichor litter his skin, looking like dark blemishes that marr his pale form. Everywhere, from his arms to his shoulders, down over his pectorals and trailing like grotesque shadowy vines over his abdominal muscles. The dark shapes stand out starkly like angry starbursts. To her, these intricate patterns of black and blue with delicate arching tendrils are beautiful to behold only because they are a part of him and nothing, not even his tainted flesh can dull the love she feels for him.

He lets her sit up on her knees, allowing her to explore him curiously, tracing each scar and blackened vein to know its texture. Some dip inwards as if bisecting muscle, and some are raised ridges beneath her fingertips. The malichor scars are shockingly smooth, the flesh eggplant purple and shining faintly when she looks too close.

His eyes stay closed, as if he can not bear to see her face as she meets with every imperfection and leans forth to trace the designs with her mouth, traveling upwards and across until she can hear his pants turn slowly to gasping breaths and notices how he's grown engorged within his trousers.

Moments similar to this with Vasco had always left her shaking and nauseous, feeling caged and trapped in his embrace, but the feeling of Constantin's arms flexing about her, his hand sliding up her back, catching on her gown as he goes, is more reassuring than frightening. She can smell his scent, almost feel it thickening in the air and mixing with the sting of sweat that rests like a glow over his skin, and she feels his hardness pressing tautly against her belly as she presses herself flat against his torso to reach an angle that allows her to deepen their kiss.

She moans against him and he echoes the sound octaves deeper, harmonizing. His right arm teases at her hip and the broad hand of his left slips down and down until it cups her bottom, not squeezing but there. It tickles with pleasure and she makes a soft mewl of his name as the hand passes even lower and squeezes like a gentle but firm vice about her thigh.

"You are wearing far too much clothing Aurelie," he tells her as his fingers curl into her gown but does not pull or lift the flimsy fabric. "There is nothing I desire more than to cast my gaze upon your beauty."

It takes a few seconds for the haze to clear enough from her brain to really think about the request. He is still wearing leggings, still half dressed but she would be fully naked if he removes her gown. No barrier between her aching breasts and his rough, scarred chest. Nothing between her naked thighs and buttocks and the broadness of his hands. Nothing but the reddish curls upon her mons protecting her sex from his eyes.

She complies, reaching down to grasp at the ivory hem and pulls it upwards.

It slips first over her thighs and bottom and she feels cold air bloom over her sex and belly, her entire lower half bare. And then farther, sliding like tender fingers over her breasts as she brings her arms over her head and leaves them bare. A last quick movement and a tug of her loose hair, and the gown slides entirely away and is abandoned, left to float like a ghost down upon the floor and out of reach.

She lowers her arms, uncertain where to place them, whether or not she should reach out to Constantin or let them dangle at her sides limply and listlessly.

And he is looking at her. Not at her flushed face alone, for he has long looked upon it with half hidden longing. Now he looks at her body, taking in her pale skin, bearing the few scars that riddle the hard planes of her body. Though there is a softness about her, with a frame that is small and slender. A myriad of freckles speckle the curve of her hips and shoulders like tiny constellations, only interrupted by the occasional bump of a scar she has earned from adventuring.

When his eyes slip over her breasts, they feel tight, nipples aching impossibly against the cool night air and her whole body gives a little jolt.

He swallows loudly and she can see his throat bob. "Fuck, you are breathtaking..." He murmurs, his eyes fixed and hungering, his arms extending but not brushing against her pristine skin in the silvery moonlight.

"Touch me," she orders him. She reaches out then with her own hands, guiding his arms so that the right wraps around her and pulls her close, and the left cups the swell of her breast. All she can do is glance up at his astonished, entranced face and clutch at his upper arms to balance upon her suddenly weak and unsteady legs.

Though she longs to arch up and take his lips, she allows him to explore her as she has him. Lets him measure the weight of her breast in his palm as he leans down to lick her throat. Lets him circle her nipple with his thumb until she moans loudly, exposing her slender throat in a swanlike arch with a sigh, his mouth tracing her quickening pulse, sucking and sending shockwaves of pleasure straight down her spine to her core. He drifts lower and urges her back against their mountain of soft pillows so that he can better reach her slender collarbones and trace over the dip at the base of her throat.

Constantin's mouth only leaves her skin so that he can run his hand down her ribcage and spread it across her hard lower belly, just beneath her navel and just above the hair cloaking her sex. And who would have expected that such a touch makes her whole body _ache_ and her pelvis _arch_ and her legs shift restlessly against the duvet. She nearly squirms, feeling that hand shift towards her hip, fingertips tickling painfully close to her groin but teasing over her inner thigh. She bites her lip to withhold her whining, and the noise he makes in return is choked and strangled.

The first tentative touch of his thumb brushes across the lips of her sex, skimming so close to the swollen nub that tingles with need to be touched, and her body shudders with the low cry that leaves her throat. Normally, a touch like this would have been a nice tease from a former lover, but just the _thought_ of _him_ touching her here augments the feeling tenfold.

And his body jolts at her heady cry of want, an instinctive response to her visceral sound. "Aurelie..." He manages to whisper, leaning forward until their foreheads touch, until their noses brush, waiting with his hand poised between her barely spread thighs. "Cum for me, Aurelie..." He kisses her headily, dipping in and pulling away in a single space between breaths.

His fingers brush against her again, his thumb slipping along the seam of her outer lips, nearly brushing. And she finds her fingers in his hair and her lips against his sweaty cheek as her hips push up towards the caress. "Keep going, Constantin. Please, don't stop."

"My lucky star," he hisses in a desperate prayer against her mouth. "You undo me. So easily."

Then his head ducks, and he goes back to his worship of her throat. He strokes the back of his hand over her sex again and again, and she feels herself crying out softly into the waves of his silver blonde hair as she clutches his shoulders and scours her nails softly down his back. Beneath her palms, she feels the scars she has not yet explored, a lattice work of art upon his bare skin, but she is distracted from her exploration by how his knees finally rest fully between her legs, easing them farther and farther apart until she knows he can see her intimately if he but pulls away from where he intently sucks and nips at her throat and gazes down her body slick with sweat.

He moves lower, moaning softly in response to her hands on his body and in his hair, tugging and tangling, a counterpoint to her increasingly loud and desperate cries as his movements become bolder. As his fingers finally delve, sliding over the wetness of her core where she _burns_ for his touch.

No single caress is perfect in direction or pressure but Aurelie knows she cannot last long despite his inexperience with the particulars of what her body likes. He rubs her swollen pearl gently and it is almost too much; the feeling of his calluses somewhere so sensitive, the press of his fingertips against her thighs and circling about her now dripping dripping entrance but not trying to force themselves in, and she can feel herself writhing beneath him. Her cries drowning out the groans she can feel vibrating through his chest from where her palms spread across his back.

Slipping just a little further down, his mouth traces a line between her breasts, leaving mouthy kisses between fast breaths. They trace the undercurve of a breast, and then seeks out her nipple, closing around the bud and suckling. Each pull feels like a burst of white behind her eyes and Aurelie can do nothing but push her hands into the thick silk of his hair, cupping the back of his head to hold him in place, begging him to never stop as her pleasure swells.

She feels it coming upon her, a rising wave of bliss accompanied by whispers of his name on her tongue, a heat that rests deep in her core and spreads rapidly outwards. Digging her nails into his scalp, rolling her hips upwards into his hand, she feels the shocking heat tremble through her center and radiate outwards. Quaking, she goes tense beneath his form.

"Constantin," she gasps out, and she cannot think of anything or anyone else. His fiery heart beneath her hands, over her body. The way he teases her through the searing white orgasm catching her spine aflame and flashing behind her eyes like lightning, striking her over and over with each new wave until she quivers and comes apart again.

Until she is too tender and sobbs at his touch.

The sensation settles into her skin, no longer buzzing over but resting deep in her languid muscles and limp bones. Her head falls back upon the pillows, her forehead slick with sweat and her mouth dry from her panting breaths. But Aurelie nevertheless moans when he pulls his hand away, when the heat of his mouth releases her nipple and presses kisses to the swollen buds before migrating back to her parted lips. The whole of his body rests in the cradle of hers, his hips against her pelvis, his arms holding his chest aloft to avoid squishing her beneath his weight as he kisses her again and again, almost desperately.

Her body feels languid and glowing. Warm and golden, the build of arousal that had itched under her skin now slipping into the background. Yet, she notices the way his body trembles beneath her hands where they trace his broad shoulders and his quivering back. Her breaths slow, her racing heartbeat calming, but she can sense that his body is still tautly coiled and shaking with need.

"Constantin," she whispers into his skin, tasting the droplets of salt that decorate his shoulder like tiny stars. "Come inside me, make us one..."

He curses softly, sounding as wrecked and unraveled as she feels even as he hunkers down atop her, resting his full weight upon his forearm so that he can reach between them and direct himself. She feels his sex upon her, rubbing up and down through the slickness of her orgasm, his hand smearing the wetness across his length, his trembling fingers guiding the head across her folds until she feels it knocking against her entrance. This is it, she realizes, one part nervous and one hundred parts in need as she feels the first little bit of pressure.

And then he is pushing into her. She gasps, clutching at his shoulders and glancing down as they come together.

Her deep inner muscles are slick and relaxed as they welcome him inside easily, blooming open in acceptance and greed. It feels different with him, his depth greater inside her that none have ever explored. It makes her toes curl where they rest against his sides, makes her voice sigh softly into the crook of his neck. Above her, he pants, and she can see that his hips shiver, that is jaw clenches. He struggles to be still when she takes him all the way inside. Finally, they are fully joined, his length burying into her down to its hilt. 

"Aurelie," he moans out. "Tell me now if you wish for me to stop. I feel as though my restraint is beginning to shatter in your embrace."

The very last thing she wants is to stop. He is finally with her, finally _hers_.

Her knees squeeze tight around his hips, her toes stretching and flexing in languid pleasure and desire. "I do not want you to stop," she tells him softly, her nails digging into his flesh as they grasp at his upper arms, scraping up over his shoulders, catching on bumps and scars. "I want you to make love to me."

It is unlike anything she has imagined, having him bend over her with a sound like a dying man, his face burying against her neck, his lips chasing her throbbing pulse, as he begins to rock against her and into her, meeting her hips as they cradle arch upwards. They slide apart and join together again smoothly, each time sending little sparkles of golden light up her spine, filling her up again so quickly with that liquid feeling of need pooling low.

Even now, he is being so gentle, even though she can feel how much strength it takes to move slowly, to hold himself back. As sweet as that is, Aurelie is not made of glass, and the idea of seeing him let go, of feeling his strength inside her and around her through the flex of his muscles and the depths of his thrusts, has her shuddering with want.

"Let go," she whispers, stroking her fingers through his curling silver blonde hair. "You would never hurt me. Let go... I want to feel all of you.."

"...Aurelie." Through the throbs of her own thundering heartbeat all she can hear is his hoarse voice repeating her name, and through the blackness of the room all she can see are his eyes, glowing out at her through the darkness, ringed in honey lashes and burning white hot with need. Every inch of his body against hers - his mouth upon the line of her jaw, his hand tangling in her loose, scarlet ringlets, his chest scraping over her tender nipples, and his sex surging into her harder and harder - leaves her feeling on fire. 

The heat, beneath his skin, searing behind his eyes, fueling his fiery heart, is now surging forward to fill her.

In this moment there is just him and her in the world, burning up together.

Fisting his hair in her hands, she guides his mouth to hers, desperate for his taste on her tongue. It is heady, full of breath and richness of wine, and his tongue makes love to her mouth as throughoughly as his sex makes love between her thighs. Until the movement he makes feels like it is encouraging white flashes behind her eyes, and her voice raises in a song that is only his name and nothing else.

His harmony comes as moans against her throat. "Yes.." he growls out, and she knows not at first if he is talking to her or calling into the vastness of the universe. "Yes, Aurelie, you feel so good..."

"C-Constantin," she gasps out against his ear, her breath knocking from her lungs every time he surges deeper inside her. "I cannot take much more..."

Another kiss sucks her breath away. All she can do now is cling to him as he rams into her faster and wilder, as she loses her rhythm and feels him carry her along. She drags her fingertips over his chest and belly, feeling the way it leaves him shuddering as she traces the outlines of his abdominals and then reaches to where they join. She feels them there, passing her fingers through the slickness of their joint arousal, rubbing her digits harshly against her swollen peak as she feels her end nearing, as she senses his fast approaching.

His breath speeds against her neck along with his pace, forcing breathy cries from her throat, pushing her closer and closer. Instinctively, she arches up against his form, thighs pulling tight, ankles hooking together to hold him close. The golden knot of pleasure finally comes undone and sends her shaking around him, her whole world narrowing to where they join together at their mouths - his lips swallowing down her wail - and at their groins where the quakes originate from her center and ripple out in spasms through her belly and up her spine.

Against her, he stills, shudders and cries her name softly against her cheek as reverently as Thélème priests cry the name of San Matteus into the dark. His hips jerk in her hold as he comes, surrounding her and surrounded by her, and she layers his cheeks with kisses, trying to reach every blemish and every scar, trying to memorize every ecstatic flutter of his eyelashes and the way his brows arch upwards in pained bliss.

No matter how many times she sees that expression, it will never be enough. Even as she comes down from her own peak, as she feels her limbs unfurl and release him from her tight hold, he is already collapsing into her arms, spent for the moment.

They continue to kiss languidly as he pulls out. "It's never… felt like that before" he admits breathlessly, eyes half hooded. Nor has it for her. She has never experienced such consuming passion while in bed with another. She is no more able to move than he in the aftermath, so overwhelming had been her pleasure, leaving her sweaty and shivering and eager to get them both beneath the covers.

"Mmm, me neither" Aurelie admits to him gently. He had come inside her, left part of himself within her. The idea of it is strange to think upon, leaving her feeling odd as she wonders if some of the wetness she feels between her legs is him as well as hers. Thinking upon it still as he rolls them onto their sides, facing so that they can nuzzle and tangle together, she feels excitement light up in her belly like butterfly wings, sparkles of light and champagne bubbles mixed as one.

They have never discussed anything about their relationship before. Before _Anemhaid,_ they were too sidetracked by the happenings of Tìr Fradí and after.. Well, there still was never enough time. Her mind has been preoccupied by the loss of her friends and the wonder of becoming a god. However she knows deep down in her soul that she has wanted this for a long time. The young, daydreaming girl she had been in her youth desired this, desired him. She had never thought that such a dream would come to fruition, not in those long years spent in the shadows of court where they were constantly looked upon with disdain by his parents. But now…

She wants it. She wants _him_ , she wants to build a better world by his side. Perhaps eventually even... marry him in the ways of the natives.

Releasing a little sound of happiness, she kisses his lips again.

"What has you glowing so brightly?" He asks lazily.

"Nothing that you need worry about," she soothes, stroking back his hair and caressing his cheek as she watches his eyes flutter closed with fatigue and satisfaction. "Do you think we should rise and rejoin Slàn and Petrus for the day? I fear they may be distraught over our prolonged absence."

"Now it is you who should not worry." He pulls her down into his arms possessively, silencing any further words with a deep kiss that almost steals away her remaining breath. "They can wait a little while longer. Can I not spend the rest of today alone with my lucky star?"

She giggles and settles back into bed. "Are we going to make love again?"

"As many times as we can manage," Constantin promises, his teeth tickling at the skin of her throat and his fingers creeping up to stroke the curve of her breast.

"Sounds perfect," she replies with a coy grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie and Constantin get some downtime in the next chapter and Derdre makes her first move...


	14. Closing In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malicious rumors reach the ears of De Sardet and Constantin...

**༄ XIV.**

A quiet aftermath follows their lovemaking. It is of infinite gentleness with fingers stroking across a heavily rising chest, tracing over the pounding throb of his heart as it slows. His hazy look of bliss and contentment is glorious in the dim light, and his star-struck eyes could not have looked away from the swollen redness of lips, watching until they fade away from his skin, tracing across the flex of a shoulder and over the tendons of his throat to the gallop of his calming pulse.

Constantin takes a moment to savor the feeling of their bodies curling together, after nightmares and heartbreak and untamed ecstasy, their legs tangling up together in a jumble of moonlight-white and sun-kissed cream, her hair spilling across the duvet in waves of scarlet. He stares into her dark eyes then, seeing the mirror image of his honey gaze staring back like golden stars set in the night sky of his lover's soul.

"Are you happy?" He asks then, hardly daring to touch her rosy cheek but hardly capable of restraining himself. "Aurelie?"

"I am," she answers, the embers of her fading spark drizzled with the glimmer of grief and the tiny sparkle of genuine happiness. "Really, truly, I am, Constantin."

"Ah, that gladdens me.."

He loves every minicscuple slice of his beloved. Every thread of hair and every long eyelash and every quirky expression and every type of smile or frown and every hue of coloured cheeks and every sound that departs her flower-lips. Every inch of skin from head to toe and every flex of muscle in war or passion and every straight-spined stance of pride, every elegant step as the dancing of feet upon the airs and every secret brush of fingertips against fingertips to accompany every secret and knowing glance.

He loves even the secrets which yet escape his knowledge. Even those dark things that lurk in the beyond, traveling like smoke between his fingers. Yet undiscovered and unexplored.

And if he could continue to untangle his lover's intricate design for the next hundred thousand years of the world, he would be content with that fate. Even after countless years when all the world has changed beyond recognition and their first meeting beneath the stars lingers as a hazy daydream upon the fringe of an infinite cycle of glimpses of jade eyes peeking from beneath red lashes, he does not doubt that he would still discover new beauties - inside and out - over which to marvel. New gems hidden in the pale bosom of this fiery spirit he dares to call his own.

Such is the nature, he supposes, of loving another. All parts of another. With all the devotion and strength and passion a heart has to spare.

A lazy smile spreads across his scarred lips as he closes his eyes and drifts off beside her, dreaming of a future made just for the two of them.

༄

"What need have we of all this fabric?" Constantin can not help but ask as he watches Aurelie pick up yet another silken bolt, her pretty hands spreading across the soft surface in dancing waves.

Truthfully, watching her caress the wares so, he can only now think of her touching his skin as such. Can only remember how she had traversed his scarred chest and belly last night with those very hands, how her palms felt when they writhed and whispered over his back as he worshipped her breasts and stroked her between her trembling thighs. He would like to pluck them away from the undeserving, inanimate fabric she caresses so lovingly and instead press them upon his own body and beg her to touch him again.

Of course, they stand in the middle of a crowded street. Slàn had ordered that Hikmet's dead be gathered sometime during the night and now the streets are free of corpses rotting in the midday sun. However stains of dried blood still linger upon the occasional marbled stone, silent reminders of the cost their siege had wrought. 

Even so the marketplace is alive all around, many  _ sisaig cnameis _ women and men weave between them carrying supplies and organizing the spoils of their victory. No, this is not a place to be fondling a lover, not even surreptitiously let alone as blatantly as he imagines she might, for there are eyes everywhere traveling about. Someone would spot them.

Still, he can imagine.

Aurelie pinkens beneath his gaze, catching how his eyes shift down her slender form in a way that he would not have dared to allow himself mere weeks prior. Yesterday, he could only have imagined what her body really looked like beneath her skin-tight leathers and burgundy corselet. Now, he intimately knows the picture of her bare breasts and the hourglass of her waist. And knowing does nothing to make the want cease.

His fair companion clears her throat, and he catches how her eyes travel over the places of his body in a subtle glance before she looks back to the bolt in her hands. "Slàn said that groups of natives have been spotted not far from Hikmet and that some have expressed an interest in joining us. Surely, you do not think I would allow us both to be underdressed in a room full of  _ màls _ and  _ doneigada _ ? I will need to hurry to pick out the best cloth the clothier stores left behind and send them to the clan women who can sew."

Truthfully, Constantin had barely heard the  _ doneigad's _ report earlier this morning. He'd been too focused on Aurelie and her rosy cheeks and her swollen lips, too busy imagining what she might look like wearing her tight corselet and nothing else, lying beneath him with her hair spread out upon the sheets. Now, though, he does recall Slàn mentioning that a few clan scouts had arrived to inform her of other native groups coming to swear allegiance - voice jolly and welcoming despite her weary, if not anxious expression.

"Do you.. think it wise to open our gates so hastily?" He hesitantly asks.

Images flash through his mind. Images of red torch-flames upon swords lifted skyward, the glow upon many faces, snarling and deformed with rage and with hate. Images of coldness in jade eyes, of his trembling fingers squeezing Burhan's throat as his body grew limp. Images of crawling through Aurelie's warm pool of blood, of feeling endless grief and loss as he placed a kiss on her frozen brow.

Perhaps it was the fury and disdain with which Constantin has ever spoken of events mere days ago, a vicious and poignant diatribe that he can vividly picture in his mind's eyes. For all that Constantin is an awful, mad, regretless and remorseless fiend, Aurelie loves him still. He remembers how once after being caught with a nobleman's daughter his father had thrown his hands in the air with rage, how his furious words had echoed through the dark halls of their home, denouncing him as worthless kin with sibilant words spoken between clenched teeth. How those same tones had been in his own throat the day he ravaged Hikmet.

He cannot speak of these things to Aurelie just yet. Not until things have completely settled, for fear of pushing her away. She cannot know of how his eyes had glinted like violent starbursts just before his sword cut through an enemy's throat. Of how his laughter could sound just before he committed murder, so vibrant and wild, free of morality and free of guilt, lost in the rush of bloodshed.

The monster within him lies dormant. For now. But if these unfamiliar clans are planning trickery of some sort, would that monster resurface?

Still, Aurelie looks so earnest as she stares up at him and smiles. "I want them to love us, Constantin. They are my family now as much as they are yours. Surely you do not want them to be sent away when we have much need for their warriors and skills?"

As much as he would like to deny the merit of her words, he can see her point. For all that he fears what lurks in the shadows of his heart, sending them away would only drive them into the arms of those seeking to undermine them. Many have grown too weary to wrestle against his control, to openly defy his wishes, but in the future…

He feels Aurelie's hand upon his arm and he refocuses his gaze on her eyes. So bright and so green, so patient and yet he knows their stubborness well. "Give them a chance to prove themselves, Constantin. Trust in me, trust in them."

She smiles gently, "they might just surprise you."

Doubts still whisper through his thoughts, but he returns her smile helplessly. He does not really want to argue with her, though is loath to admit that what she says is wise. It is only the stark memory of her blank eyes staring up in nothingness and the utter feeling of helplessness and loss that holds his tongue. He had looked upon her and was torn between confusion and horror at how the woman he admired above all others could have succumbed to death with such cruel disregard. As if her presence and light meant nothing at all. As if she was worthless.

The last thing he wants is to relive those painful, bitter moments of knowing she would never awaken. Of being unable to shield her from the perils of reality. 

“I will think on it,” he concedes. Not an outright agreement but not a ban either. 

And she takes it for what it is. “Good. Now help me figure out which colours would best suit Slàn and Petrus. How will they ever garner respect if they are constantly covered in grime and dressed in muted tones?”

Constantin can not help but chuckle a bit, though he allows her to pull him towards the bolts of silk and velvet. Such a silly thought, for he doubts any  _ màl _ or  _ doneigad _ would disrespect the stern faced Slàn. The woman seems to be made of steel when faced with any situation, even the death of her niece. She held herself together enough to command the troops to set up camp around Hikmet and clean up the streets and even sent scouts from the city to spread word of their victory to the other clans. She would have made an excellent noblewoman in Sérène were it not for her native blood. 

Still, it is amusing to believe that Slàn would dare to adorn herself in the luxurious fabric of the Bridge Alliance and he does not want to wreck Aurelie’s good mood by pointing out that it is unlikely her aunt would ever wear such expensive fabrics. If it makes her happy to daydream about such a feat he will not stop it. Not if it makes her smile and glow in a way he’d thought he would never lay eyes on again.

In the back of his mind though, he feels something strange. An itch he can not quite scratch. A little train of thought that will not quite rise to the surface and allow his mind to grasp and comprehend its message. He has felt this before, like the universe is urging him to understand something that is shifting, that the world is changing beneath his feet. 

He allows Aurelie to hand him a bolt of golden fabric, placing his hand on its softness as she asks him whether it might suit Petrus, and he tries to forget all about the little feeling. The quiet instinct that drifts freely in his blood. 

Later, he thinks it might have been trying to warn him of trouble. He had just been too blind and close-minded to listen.

༄

Aurelie is still asleep, lost in sweet dreaming.

With no intention of waking her any time soon, Constantin languishes in their bed with his body curled around hers, their feet brushing one another's calves. Delicate beams of sunlight stream in through the half-open curtains, rippling through the lace and dancing across her bare skin like waves upon water, warm and gentle, casting her skin softly aglow. Like a mirage beneath his fingertips as they stroke the softness of her shoulder, tracing the arch of her brow and teasing across the bow of her swollen lips.

She is a creature made from light and pearl and silver-shine. Compared to him - the difference obvious as he touches her, the jagged darkened marks that line his hands like shadows across her smooth and unbroken whiteness - she is something pure and bright.

Coming together, he had felt her. All of her.

Last night, they had once more given into passion and the memory alone leaves him breathless, elated and at the same time, more nervous than he has ever been before. Brushing the pad of his thumb across the throbbing swirls on her cheek, he wonders if she had felt him as he had her. The inky shadow-stains on his heart, the marks in which the sickness of his past struggles to fade and never quite heals, leaving him imperfect, ruined and tattered. Not only by torment and grief but by sin as well.

He wonders if she would kiss every flaw and name each beautiful beneath her soft flower-petal lips.

Breathing out a sigh - more love stricken than an outsider would ever imagine of a cold-hearted god - he resigns himself to luxuriating the morning away in bed though he feels little fatigue, his muscles warning him of the need to arise. Still, he lays staring at his lover's beautiful sleeping face and her mussed and tangled scarlet-red curls that spread across the sheets. Staying right here, forever and warm and naked and entwined with his much better half, seems a perfectly acceptable state of existence. A perfectly delightful one, even.

They have not had the time to discuss their relationship yet, to his dismay. Were they back in Sérène he would have made a formal request to Princess d'Orsay and his father to publicly begin courtship. Not that they would have accepted such a thing, never mind engagement. Even if the entire continent was made aware of Aurelie's native blood, as the heir apparent he would be forced into an arranged marriage that would benefit the Congregation. Aurelie, as lovely and intelligent as she is, would never have been permitted to marry him when she has virtually no political or financial gain.

Luckily they are not in Sérène, where they would be restrained by political and social etiquette and decorum. Here, on Tír Fradì, they can be anything they desire, free of caring about what others may think of their relationship. Constantin desires to know where they stand, but will wait if that is her wish, as only now they have the freedom to do so.

His quiet thoughts and harmonious birdsong from outside are interrupted by the sound of a female voice in the hallway, agitated and sharp. Specifically, Slàn's voice. It is most unexpected, and his head lifts a bit from the pillow, ears straining to hear coherent words.

What is the  _ doneigad _ doing out there in the hallway?

Quietly, rising from bed on usually silent feet, just to be certain he does not disturb Aurelie's rest, he pads across the carpet and stands on the other side of the door. With practiced ease, he toggles the knob, letting the heavy wood slip open just a crack. Not enough to see much through, but enough to hear more than the soft muffled dance of words.

"- is hardly any defense for what you and him have done, so there is no point in trying to defend it with words." Petrus is saying.

To which Slàn, predictably scoffs. It is simply not like the stone-faced native to be cowed or guilted by anything or anyone. Certainly not the old Thélème priest, who does not hold a candle to even the most cowardly clan warrior. "I would not defend actions that I do not believe are wrong." The  _ doneigad _ purrs out in her usual tone, sharp and with a serious edge. "I regret not what we did at all,  _ renaigse _ . So if your intent is to drive me away, your efforts are in vain."

From what Aurelie has told him, that is not entirely truthful. He now knows that she harbored doubts shortly after Hikmet's siege, doubts about him and the amount of bloodshed they had wrought. Constantin understands, now, that doubt and can even reluctantly sympathize.

Luckily Petrus remains unaware of that fact. He doesn't trust the man, even if Aurelie does. He is manipulative like all those of the fanatical faction and if shown even a sliver of weakness, the priest would ruthlessly take advantage of it.

Even so, Constantin wishes they would argue over Hikmet's battle anywhere else but here, so that he can go off to romance and seduce Aurelie.

No luck shines upon him in that. Not that he is surprised.

"As I said, I came here only to seek De Sardet. I have no business with you. If she is elsewhere or indisposed, then I shall leave you to your morning and greet you again when breaking fast in an hour or so, Slàn." At least Slàn is restraining her temper in the face of Petrus' obvious mocking and baiting. That is more than most would have managed when the old priest is trying to wriggle and writhe under their skin like a particularly stubborn and uncomfortable sliver.

The man seems to shift his feet, shuffling audibly over the floor, and Constantin expects him to leave. But then, unexpectedly, Slàn speaks up again.

"Wait. Aurelie is in her chambers with Constantin, but if you wish to discuss the incident further, then do so with me and leave them out of it."

"She has been alone with him quite often of late.." Petrus remarks offhandedly and Constantin bristles from the concern and disgust in his tone. What business is it of his? Strange though, that the sly fox did not cloak the insinuation behind his words. To hear anything without even a hint of formal pleasantry coming out of his mouth is incredibly out of character, worth the worry that wheedles its way into Constantin's mind, what with the seriousness in that voice which drives away the chilly clamor of amusement and disdain normally ringing in those tones.

"I merely wished to inquire into that envoy's suspicions," Petrus says then after a quiet moment in response to the  _ doneigad's _ offer. "I would have liked to speak to De Sardet about the implications their words arose, but I can see that she may be… preoccupied."

"If I see her, I will send a missive," Slàn replies, voice sharp like a blade fresh from a forge.

This time, Petrus does walk away. Constantin hears the footsteps fading and the sound of Slàn's door clicking shut.

When all has gone quiet again, he opens the door and crosses the hallway, knocking on Slàn's again. Might as well find out what ridiculousness has transpired in his absence now, before going down to unexpected and unwelcome news at the breaking of fast.

Immediately the door opens. " _ En ol menawi _ . I suppose you were listening. Thought I heard someone shifting about," she says flatly, leaving the door open as she retreats back into her room. No windows, so it is dark but not so dark that Constantin can not detect her faintly illuminated daggers lying atop crumpled sheets.

"What was that all about?" He asks immediately.

"He took me by surprise," Slàn admits, her lips curling into half a grimace. "I found him pacing outside your chambers and thought to bar his passage. He seemed quite intent on disturbing you both in an effort to talk to Aurelie."

Constantin is immensely glad she did. No doubt the priest's words are of ill intent and reports on the former heir's most recent transgressions during the battle. Judging by the near-revulsion he heard in Petrus' tone, he wouldn't put it past him to even bring up his and Aurelie's new relationship.

"He broke into a rant about the events during the battle after insisting on speaking to Aurelie about a recent rumor.," Slàn continues, "There was an... incident... after you and Aurelie retired for the night. I returned to the courtyard to help settle in some new clan visitors only to find one of my warriors being verbally assaulted by a _gaís_ _rad_ envoy who seemed to have a very personal grudge against you."

For all that he tries to play it off nonchalantly, the  _ doneigad's _ voice takes on a tone that makes Constantin shudder, icy trail slipping down his spine. Many people hold a grudge against him and not for no reason at that, but that is hardly news enough to rile someone like Petrus up. He has never heard that undertone of malice, even hatred from Petrus since he has known him.

"There is more to it than that."

Slàn blinks at him from the dim shadows, reading his face with ease. "You will not like it. Not any more than I did."

_ It is most likely nothing I haven't heard before… _

"Tell me. You and I both know that I will hear about it later from someone. If you refuse to tell me now, I suppose I will go and ask Petrus in your stead."

The ruby-haired  _ doneigad _ rolls her eyes with a put-upon sigh, yet that undertone has not faded. No sarcastic comments about the  _ renaigse's _ lack of backbone come forth, and that makes him think that Slàn truly is bothered by whatever she has heard. In silence, he waits for Aurelie's aunt to gather herself, spending those long seconds steeling himself for something unpleasant.

"The envoy called Aurelie a bloodthirsty whore," Slàn finally admits, not quite meeting his eyes. "Implied that she doomed her people and the entire island only to be your bed fellow. And then they started talking about her gleefully slaughtering the innocents of Hikmet and I..."

Constantin does not really hear the rest.

To think, just a few minutes ago he had been abed with her, admiring the soft glow of her bare skin, tracing her purity with his fingertips. She has only ever been with two men in her lifetime, no one has any business of implying any such thing about her. His first reaction is blankness of the mind, a sort of grayed-out version of Slàn's face blurred with shadows.

His second reaction is the wild, untamed fury of one slighted.

Biting his lip, he reaches out to grab at a nearby dresser, digging his fingers into the wood until they tremble and burn, until his nails scratch loudly upon the finish and ache. The logical part of his mind knows that he can not storm off as he is, barely dressed and smelling of the sex he and Aurelie had been indulging in throughout the night, to find this stranger and tear them limb from limb with his bare hands.

The logical part, the part governed by base urge is more than happy to bring forward the taste of blood hot and metallic on his tongue, to remind him of the satisfaction of tearing down those who would stand against him as foes, to conjure the seductive memory of the feeling of such power and retribution and lust for blood…

Feeling sick to his stomach, he swallows back the sulfuric burn in the back of his throat.

Slàn is watching him with narrowed eyes. Not suspicious, but wary. Like she can sense that Constantin teeters on that uncomfortable edge of murderous rage. Like she knows that she should not push his temper right now and do something regrettable.

"Petrus stopped me," The  _ doneigad _ admits. "Pity. I would have liked to rip that liars face off with my fingernails. It would have been most satisfying."

It sounds flippant, but Constantin knows it is anything but.

Truthfully, he would like nothing more than to do the same. Fey laughter at the ill humor bubbles in the back of his throat as he scrapes his nails through his hair, across his scalp in lines of fire. The sound is almost sickeningly familiar, filled with broken glass, and Slàn flinches faintly back at the sound, feet shifting on the carpet.

Breathing in through his nose, he feels his chest swell with his fury.

And then he exhales it out.

Still there, still like an itch he can not scratch beneath his skin - that he suddenly would not have hesitated to clay away - but manageable. In its place, the tightness in the back of his throat. 

The guilt.

Of course, they are going to slight his Aurelie. For no other reason than that she had chosen him, for no other reason than that she now carries his taint.

"Constantin?"

He turns, spots her in the doorway and feels as though his body is going to crumble beneath her wide-eyed gaze. Just like he had done, she has come to the door and heard what has been said. His eyes turn away from her face, unable to look upon it for fear of seeing her shame and her hurt and the gleam in her eye that she knows it is  _ his  _ fault.

" _ Minundhanem _ , aunt, you need not defend my honor as such." She murmurs softly, leaving them both floundering in surprise. "I have been called much worse growing up in Sérène, as you well know."

"But these people used to look at you with respect and hold you in high esteem. Were it not for me..." Constantin trails off softly.

"Do not be ridiculous." She sweeps across the room in her gown and robe. Even as tiny as she is, she so easily reels them down, somehow managing to embrace both him and Slàn at once. "What happened was an accident of fate, nothing more. It was my choice to join you Constantin, just as it is my choice to be your lover. By no means were the resulting cruel words and rumors the fault of anyone but the self-centered and melodramatic imaginations of men and women with nothing better to do than spread lies for their own entertainment amongst the rabble too stupid to think for themselves. So it has always been and so it will continue to be."

"Aurelie..."

"Ignore them." She hisses fiercely, squeezing them both tightly. "I followed my heart for once and am free of others whims and fancies. Let them think what they want."

She is right. As oft she is.

He snorts out a laugh against her red hair and nuzzles against her cheek. Her scent is sweet on the back of his tongue as he breathes her in and feels the infuriated shivers of his muscles calm back down into stillness. "You are going to choke us if you squeeze any tighter around our necks.."

"Hush, you." She releases them, but not without planting a kiss on each of their cheeks first. "So this strange clan envoy... I think I may have some idea who he might be. And, I might suspect that his opinion may be influenced by a certain  _ màl _ ."

The threads connect, weaving themselves into a complete tapestry within Constantin's thoughts. "You think this man might be in league with Derdre."

"Who else would be so slighted by what we have done? There is ought she can do but disparage me in such a way. Though I fear this may be only the beginning." She offers them a little smile. "Now, let us not worry any more about such things. Tell me of our preparations for the new arrivals, Slàn."

The sight of his lucky star laughing and grabbing the stone-faced  _ doneigad _ by the elbow, bombarding her with questions about provisions needed and living arrangements, manages to bring forth a feeling of gentle fondness to combat the bitter taste of protective fury still hiding just beneath the surface. It lingers like a noxious shadow, just waiting for the sun to set to be unleashed again.

For now, he will tuck away the urge to slowly strip the skin off this so-called envoy bit by bit. But only for now.

Said envoy better pray he never comes face to face with Constantin d'Orsay.

If he does, he might not have a face to his name anymore when the offended god is done peeling it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> gaís rad | Siora's clan who live in the village of verdhais
> 
> Sorry for this chapter being so late! I wanted to finish chapter 15 before I shared this one and am pleased to say it is done. No aesthetic board this time as I couldn't find anything that went well with the story. Hopefully there shall be one next time!
> 
> Next up:  
> Mev arrives in Hikmet, and Constantin reveals his intentions to Slàn and Petrus.


	15. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mev arrives in Hikmet...

**༄ XV** .

It is really no surprise that callers come knocking in the afternoon.

Aurelie had finished her bathing and socializing with Slàn and sent her aunt on her way. Now, she has herself settled into one of the parlors of Governor Burhan with Petrus, dressed in a flowing white blouse and scaled leather leggings, her hands busy with filling various tinctures and vials. Perhaps her spare time could be used to plan accordingly for arriving clans, but she finds the mixing of potions quite therapeutic, calming her restless nerves.

The sound of a knock interrupts her momentary bliss. She releases a sigh even as her hands still. Across from her, Petrus pauses in his ramblings as well. 

"More guests," the Thélème mage mutters, fiddling with an empty health vial and setting it aside. "You need not come out and greet guests if you do not wish, my child. We will hold a formal audience later this afternoon for those who have arrived. You must be tired after your... activities last night."

"Must I be?" Aurelie replies flatly.

Petrus casts her a long look but says nothing more, instead leaving the parlor. He does not bother to close the door all the way.

Naturally, Aurelie goes to the crack to listen.

"We have come to speak with the _on ol menawi_ , Aurelie De Sardet." She hears. "We wish to pay her our respect and ask her about the events at _Anemhaid_."

"The lady De Sardet is quite busy as gods usually are. Certainly, if you could come back at a later time -" Petrus' voice is welcoming, feigned in its brightness at welcoming people into their makeshift home, but is interrupted.

"Petrus, I should think that it would be Lord d'Orsay's task to say yay or nay to visitors given... recent rumors." Her aunt. Sounding very unenthusiastic about the visitors. 

Just this morning Slàn had informed she and Constantin of the impending arrival of _Cengaden_ _anedas_ , _Gaís rad_ and their _máls_. Síora, Eseld and Derdre's clans. While Aurelie is overjoyed to see Síora again, after so very long... she comes in the company of Derdre, who openly despises she and Constantin. A messenger from Derdre's clan relayed her supposed hope for peace by pledging allegiance to the new gods but Aurelie strongly doubts those intentions. Derdre has always been hungry for power and harbours a deep seeded hatred not only for _renaigse_ but her as well. Because she had given the crown to Dunncas in her stead.

Dunncas... His clan, the _Beraíg nodas_ , are the only clan to have not sent a messenger to Hikmet. It worries her that the High King and his clan have gone silent. Without him, truly gaining the support of the other clans will be difficult. Many fill Hikmet's walls already under a banner of peace but with shadowed intentions and alliances of their own. 

Carefully, she opens the door leading from the hallway into the foyer and peeks out at the figures gathering therein. First, of course, her eyes are drawn to her lover, who is no longer wearing his usual garb of amethyst hue. He looks exhausted and has obviously bathed and redressed in dark colours, his honey-bright eyes cutting through the sunlight streaming from the stained glass into the large, open foyer. Even without his finery - looking no part the Prince that he is by birth, but every bit the self-sustained man in his hand-sewn attire of practical fabrics and simple designs - Constantin is striking. As striking as his mother, yet so much more beautiful than Lady d'Orsay could ever manage to be.

There are three others unknown to her but only one woman stands out amongst the fray. Mev, the _tierna harh cadachtas_ and head of the _Anemen shádí_ clan. She holds her head high, pine-green eyes sharp as a blade while she surveys those before her, lips set in a slight grimace. Despite her calm exterior, Slàn is visibly trembling while in the woman's presence. Besides the High King, none is more respected than Mev. She is the highest spiritual authority of Tír Fradì, with knowledge and wisdom that puts even the most skilled _doneigad_ to shame. It is entirely unexpected that she should be standing here, before the people who usurped her god and mercilessly slaughtered those fighting at _Anemhaid_. 

"I have every right to seek the blessings of the new gods and inquire about the battle." Mev says casually, slightly tilting her head in the _doneigad's_ direction. 

"Aurelie is busy at the moment, but perhaps I can be of service in her stead." Constantin replies with a polite dip of his golden head, but grits his teeth while doing so.

"So, you are the one who drained _En on mil frichtimen_ of his power and corrupted the beasts and _nadàig_ of Tír Fradì? The greedy shadow who murdered my god? I am unimpressed." From her position in the doorway, Aurelie can clearly see her lover's face. Can clearly see that his knife-filled eyes are directed first towards Slàn, and then at Mev. They are ashy with hate and dread.

Solemn-faced, Mev now stares up at Petrus, Slàn and Constantin after her words are met with silence. "As usual, you care about nothing but your own interests," she finally continues, and her voice might as well be formed of whips of flame studded in rusty nails. "And, I see you are but a wastrel of a god. For a while now, De Sardet has had the tiniest slice of my respect - had she left you behind like a sensible woman to be with that Naut instead of being dragged down into the abyss by your tainted hands. I had thought she would have common sense when faced with something evil and vindictive such as you - but I see even that has fallen to the wayside."

Constantin's jaw clenches, but he mercifully says nothing in his own defense - nor hers. It is a smart move and very unlike her fiery and unpredictable _minundhanem_.

"I understand your anger, but do not blame Aurelie for a choice she would not have made were it not for me," he finally replies, "My only desire is peace in Tír Fradì and for the _renaigse_ to leave its shores for good."

Pushing the door open, she steps out into the foyer. All sets of eyes fall upon her in her casual daywear. " _En on mil frichtimen_ was weak and could not withstand the onslaught of _renaigse_ and their need for conquest. Were it not for us the clans would be in chains and sold into slavery, or experimented on or burned alive for their beliefs - _our_ beliefs. _En on mil frichtimen_ was weak but we are _strong_. We will succeed where he has failed."

Constantin's lips curl into a helpless smirk. He has always been fond of her fire.

Mev does not appreciate the humor of the situation for the way her eyebrows furrow downwards into a furious snarl, hidden at the very last moment. "Very well, lady De Sardet. Might I ask you a few questions about _Anemhaid_?"

"You may ask," Aurelie murmurs. "I may not answer."

Her lover outright chuckles at the same time as Slàn hisses out in a scandalized "Aurelie!" as though she has loosed a foul swearword. 

Mev merely purses her lips.

"You need not answer anything at all, Aurelie," Petrus insists. "Would it not be better for you if you just let the past lie? You could -"

"It is none of your business," she interrupts sharply, giving the old priest the steeliest glare she can manage. "Come into the parlor and we shall see about answering your questions. Or not, depending upon their nature."

Slowly, Mev steps towards her while the rest remain still and quiet. She leads her away to the parlor without another word.

She glances around with her pale, pine-green irses. "This Lions home is lovely indeed."

Jewels everywhere. Aurelie had initially thought the whole thing was already gaudy more than anything else. The tables are littered not with expensive vases and fresh flowers, but rather statuettes and baubles of all sorts carven from or encrusted with all manner of crystals and minerals. A result of the Congregation of Merchants trading with the Bridge Alliance. They are not of making jewelry or the mining of raw gems, just the trading between two vastly different worlds - those who scour the earth for its treasures and pluck them with reverent hands and those who turn those jewels into something formed of their mind's eye in elaborate designs and creations of beauty - and as a trading outpost it has made Hikmet rich to the point of decadence.

So, yes, their hard-won home is lovely. A lovely prison of vibrant colours and all the jewelry and finery she could ever want. Not that she has ever desired such things.

She allows the woman into the parlor. "Come and sit with me. Ask your questions."

They sit across from each other, Aurelie back upon the sofa and Mev in the chair Petrus had recently vacated, partially filled vials of various liquids scattered about them. "It is surprising to see you so... comfortable after the loss at _Anemhaid_ . I would have thought you would be with your Naut companion, nevermind a goddess surrounded by _renaigse_ luxury."

"Is that really what you wish to talk about?" Aurelie asks quietly.

"No," the t _eirna harh cadachtas_ admits. "High King Dunncas has vanished in the aftermath of _Anemhaid_. His clan is in turmoil and searching endlessly for him, but to no avail. I had hoped you might know what has happened to him."

"If you are implying that we have harmed or captured him in any way, you are mistaken," she answers. "Even with my new title, High King Dunncas has my full support in governing the clans. Rather, I need him more as an ally than a captive. But no, I have not seen nor heard from him since the battle."

Of course, this is not what Mev wants to hear from her and Aurelie knows that. "That is worrying. There is unrest and anger amongst the clans. They hate you for killing our god and I fear they may revolt against your rule, despite appearances."

"I have heard rumors of Derdre stirring up the clans and forging alliances. I am surprised that you are not amongst them, given your obvious dislike towards Constantin and I." 

"I do, but if war were to break out..." Mev's eery green pools glow faintly in the somber light, revealing a sorrow Aurelie is all too familiar with. "We would lose. While I cannot forgive what you have done to _En on mil frichtimen,_ I see his and Tír Fradì's spirit within you."

She makes no mention of Constantin.

Aurelie subconsciously reaches up to trace the birch-white crown growing from atop her scarlet curls, a few burnt-orange leaves fluttering down into her lap from the movement. Maybe she should tell her of the inkling of remorse rising in her breast. She is no more a saint than Constantin, especially when it comes to the dealings of her own emotions. She dare not stifle the truth to one as high status as _tierna_ _harh_ _cadatchas_ , but she is now a god, not a mere legate. While she thrives on politics, she is at a loss on what to do in this situation. All she wants is peace and to live out her days protecting the _Yetch Fradì_ with Constantin at her side. 

  
  


"Can you not quell the unrest? You are highly respected among the _Yetch Fradì_. Surely words from you would -"

"No," Mev immediately responds with a shake of her head. "I have tried and while my own clan is behind me, the others are not. They are being seduced by the promises of Derdre. I hear she is on her way here to pledge allegiance to you..."

"We suspect that she wishes to drag those away from us who have already committed themselves to our rule. Either that or attempt to kill Constantin and I both." Aurelie replies frankly with a wave of her hand. "We will deal with her when the time comes."

"Will you execute her?" 

"No, I will do everything I can to make her see reason. There has already been too much native blood spilled." 

If Mev disbelieves her words, it shows not on her painted face. The mark of an experienced politician - in spite of years avoiding politics altogether - to not give away her thoughts too easily to the opponent. Instead, she stands. "That is all I would ask of you, other than that you would send word if you hear anything about Dunncas."

She nods with a flat look upon her face. "Of course, I will send news of his whereabouts if I receive any."

"My thanks," Mev answers, giving her a slight dip of her head. "I will leave you to your potions and other pursuits. _Kwa awelam seg_."

Aurelie merely inclindes her chin elegantly upwards as she watches the woman leave, anxiety clawing beneath her skin.

༄

Watching Aurelie and Mev disappear off into the parlor, Constantin feels the humor that had just alighted his gut now diminish rapidly, driven back beneath the pounding of his lingering migraine. But a moment ago, he had taken great amusement in seeing that flame within Aurelie eyes, that spark of hidden fury that ever rests within her gaze, that he loves dearly for it always heralded her beloved sarcastic, spear-headed words as they dig into their target mercilessly and draw blood.

She is vibrant and glorious and takes his breath away still.

But now is not the time to speak with her, no matter how much he longs to follow in the trail of her deliciously tight leggings like a loyal dog. Instead, he will take this time and speak to Slàn about his intentions. A girl such as she ought to be properly courted and wooed, despite being so far away from Sérène.

It is a mere formality, speaking to Petrus and Slàn. Yet, he knows that it would hurt her to have to go about their.. affairs behind the backs of her closest relative and the man she sees as a father. A bit of fun every now and again is a breath of fresh air, and Constantin can not deny that there is a particular sort of excitement in riling up his future in-laws by stealing Aurelie away at the most inappropriate moments, but...

Well, he doubts that they would ever truly like him. While they have not voiced their disdain, he knows that Slàn and Petrus do not agree with all he has done, nevermind bed the woman he was raised to believe is his cousin. He does not begrudge their wariness and desperately yearns to earn their respect, if not love in the future. 

Turning to the Thélėme priest and _doneigad_ , Constantin lets his smirk slip away. "Might we have words, Slàn?"

He can tell by those glistening emerald eyes, hard as stone, that she would rather do anything else but does not deny him his request. "Come up to my study and we can talk in privacy, Constantin."

That is probably as welcoming as it is going to get.

Unfortunately, Petrus follows them up the stairs. He had hoped to speak with her alone, but this will have to do. Wisely, Petrus only came to him with day to day trivialities and they often hardly spoke to one another, instead choosing to pretend to each that the other does not exist. He does not mind, he is well aware that the mage's loyalties are for Aurelie and not him. Still, it stings.

He imagines that the _doneigad_ and Petrus' opinion of him has done nothing but plummet shortly after he ran from New Sérène to steal the life and power of _En on mil frichtimen_ . After all it was on his commands that his shadow creatures slaughtered all who attempted to enter _Anemhaid_ , warriors from Slàn's clan and priests from Thélème. Certainly, he doubts that they will be allies in his quest to woo Aurelie.

They all enter the study, still quiet. Aurelie's aunt sits behind her makeshift desk, and Petrus moves to stand by her shoulder in a united front, cold frazil-silver eyes burning with an inner fire similar to his lovers. 

"Have a seat, Constantin. Please do not mind the clutter, I have been up to my neck in preparing Hikmet for the arrival of the clans," Slàn offers.

He does not, despite the rudeness of slighting a gesture of welcome. He does not want Petrus, in his silver armor looming over him like a vengeful shadow. It is an instinctive aversion from his time at court, to not put himself in such a position of vulnerability.

"I am here at my own behest. I request that you allow me to court her, properly." At this, he glares at Petrus with all the fiery disdain he can muster with how much his heart aches to be away from here and with his Aurelie instead.

"Courting...? Is that a _renaigse_ tradition?" Slàn inquires, finding this to be a bit amusing in the darkest of manners.

"Indeed," Petrus intones much to his annoyance. "It is a period in which a pair may develope a romantic relationship with the idea of marriage in mind."

"Sounds complicated. In my clan, the man or woman would abduct their partner during the night and trap them in their hut. If they do not escape before the sun rises, then the couple is declared _minundhanem_."

"While that sounds more enjoyable than this.. It is Aurelie's wish that we approach our relationship this way," he says, watching the half-smirk on the Thélėme priest's face quickly fade. "You may speak frankly."

"We should just allow you, a murderer of innocents, to do as you please with a woman you once called 'cousin', is that right?" Petrus looses a skeptical look upon him.

"Aurelie was taken. Had you my power, you would not have done differently. Do you not care for what said _woman_ desires?" He then asks, trying his best to stay calm and not allow his temper to get the better of him.

"Constantin, I have seen what sort of pain and suffering you have committed in her name." Slàn murmurs, temper much cooler than that of her comrade. "I fear nothing will change and that your relationship... might be a mistake."

"Our love is not a mistake." Constantin scoffs. "You forget, she is a god and able to make her own decisions."

"All we do, we do out of love for her."

If anything, Constantin is certain that is true. To an extent. But he has also spent all his childhood watching his mother and fathers cold displays of affection and feigned happiness. He will not allow that to happen to the woman he loves, to once again be surrounded by an unloving family.

"All I do, I do out of love for her as well," Constantin confesses, and he means his words, for he does dearly love his lucky star, has learned the lesson of her value in endless nights of suffering and heartache. "If she desires for me to leave and never return, never cast my shadow upon her doorstep again, I will do it without hesitation. But only at her behest. Not yours. Until the day she turns me away, I will continue to come back to her. Again and again. No matter how much you dislike me. Consider it my warning for you."

"You can never give her the life she deserves," Slàn says. "You never can. A prince and a god you may be, but she will be trapped within this cage, surrounded by war and doubt. She could marry that Naut captain, Vasco and roam the seas, looking for a new adventure to get lost in... if only she does not want you."

"Yet," Constantin replies stubbornly, locking his jaw and jutting his chin dangerously. "It is I, Constantin d'Orsay, Heir Apparent of the Congregation of Merchants, who has brought her happiness."

The look he receives is a nocuous one indeed.

"But, no matter that I might disdain you, I will not take her family away from her," he adds. "All I am asking is that you support us in her - our - desires. Do not make her choose between you and I."

"You ought to be an honorable man and walk away from her regardless of what she desires," Petrus spits, voice barely containing his rising temper. "You ought to take responsibility for the thousands you slaughtered within Hikmet and all the others who lie dead in _Anemhaid_. If you love her, you will leave her to a better life than one trapped with you."

Constantin has thought those very thoughts before. He has debated and dragged his feet, contemplating cowardice and shame before her gaze. The old priest can not begin to imagine the black mass of self-hate that Constantin battles within the corners of his mind every day, telling him that he is not good enough or brave enough to protect and love her...

"It is her choice to make," he whispers softly. "I will not take that away from her. No matter what I think or what I want. I will not. Ever."

He waits not for their reply, for he knows a lost cause when he sees one. Instead, he leaves them there, perhaps rudely but he cares little for courtly pageantry in a land without such things. He travels back downstairs on quick, heavy strides. As he descends, he hears footsteps follow in his wake and sees that Mev has returned from speaking to Aurelie and is looking to be in just as bad a mood as he is in. Perhaps worse. Obviously, she has not received the news she sought.

She barely casts him a cursory glance as she pushes past him, painted features wrinkled in a scowl. He offers the disconcerted woman a cruel smile, teeth peering out threateningly between his lips, and it has the dual purpose of not only driving Mev to quiet rage, but also hiding a wince that wants to overwhelm his visage as the sunlight shines through stained glass and directly into his eyes. "I do hope you spoke to my _minundhanem_ with more respect than when you addressed me. Or I will tell you that you can expect no help from me during your time in Hikmet."

A mix of confusion and disgust flash within her pine green irises, but she remains silent, merely setting her lips in a thin line.

Despite the anger churning in his gut, Constantin has enough sense to know that having Mev as an enemy would make their rule that much harder. Her word alone might be enough to sway any doubtful natives to their side.

"You test my patience, _lugeid blau_ ," she snarls out. "I will tolerate Aurelie to some degree, but you... let us hope that you are as immortal as you claim to be."

The threat would have been more frightening had Constantin not grown up beneath the overwhelming temper of his father, who is about tenfold more terrifying when he was simply snarling in frustration nevermind when he was shouting insults and threats at the top of his lungs like a volcano erupting hatefully upon everyone and everything nearby. Comparatively, Mev is but a kitten.

"I am that and more," he mocks.

With a last look of warning down her nose, she spins on her heel and departs in a flurry of motion.

"Constantin."

Turning around, his golden gaze meets with that of Slàn's emerald. She is alone, Petrus no longer her shadow like before in her study. "When the _renaigse_ first arrived on Tír Fradì, we had looked to our High King for guidance, and he failed us and neglected us, as though we were worthless compared to his pride obsession to become a nadaig. Many comrades and friends, many women and children, perished as a result of his arrogant disregard for the warnings and signs of _En on mil Frichtimen_."

Those green eyes move away, focusing on the coloured glass windows. "Not that we could fault him. Power is a seductive thing, especially when entertwined with revenge. It was an army of renaigse under the command of your father who killed all natives who opposed the foreign invaders at first. Even the settlements you claimed to protect were decimated beneath the blades of your warriors and kin. Think not that I forgive easily."

"I do not ask forgiveness for doing what I felt needed to be done to protect and save Aurelie. I would slaughter millions to keep safe those who I consider to be mine by blood or choice." If there is one thing Constantin rarely ever is, it is repentant. "I am quite certain that your niece feels the same."

Slan scoffs and looks away.

Constantin almost rolls his eyes, however childish that reaction might be. "Well, it hardly matters now. Be as bitter towards myself; I care little for it so long as it never transfers to Aurelie. Now, if you will excuse me..."

He sets off across the foyer, hand wrapping around the handle leading to the hallway down which Aurelie had disappeared. With every intention of hunting down his lover and spending time with her - as much time as he can manage before he inevitably needs to solve one crisis or another - he pushes the door open.

"Wait."

Pausing, halfway across the threshold, he looks over his shoulder at the _doneigad_.

"I do not approve of you," Slàn tells him plainly, "And I make no secret of that. But... I approve of what you have done for my people so far, and your promise to free us of a life dictated by _renaigse_."

Constantin has been under the impression that Slàn has never held any love or respect for him at all. Ever. Stll, he inclines his head in acceptance. "I take my promises seriously, as I do my love for Aurelie. I would never betray the natives, nor your niece."

In response, Slàn is pale-faced. Likely from the shocked horror of hearing someone as carefree as Constantin utter an oath, even a desirable one, aloud. But he also nods in acceptance. "I will not be in the way of your relationship, but the other clans may not be so kind or fair. Derdre in particular will work against you at every turn."

"I already know that."

He gives the _doneigad_ a half smile now, accompanied by a hard glance full of blazing-light eyes biting deep into the spirit that leaves the woman shivering, before he steps through the doorway and into the hallway beyond in search of his lucky star. 

Most of the doors are closed, but their chambers off to the right is just barely cracked open, afternoon sunlight glinting between the edge of the door and doorframe, casting a long, bright block of light upon the far wall. Peering inside, he spots just the tip of her leather boots, hears the soft tones of her humming, and releases a sigh that is more lovestruck than he would ever admit to aloud. He could have stood here and listened to her soft voice for an age, hidden in the shadows and admiring her light from afar.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to join me," she says from within, "Or are you planning to continue standing out there in the hallway like a dimwit?"

Slowly, he pushes the door open, leaning against the frame as he drinks in her form and face. Still more beautiful than any woman he has ever seen. Little for her finery does he care, though her loose jerkin and form-fitting corselet suit her well enough, he would rather see her smile. Instead, she is glaring down at a vial of blue liquid, as though she might cast a shade upon it through the rays of sunshine slipping in through the parlor window just by a look.

  
  


"I didn't wish to disturb your concentration..." He says, trailing off in embarrassment.

At that, she glances up at him, and her cold facade cracks. "Thank you... My mind's been preoccupied all day, so there's no harm in joining me."

Constantin swallows down his instinctive reply to that comment. As much as he would like to ask her if she wants him to rip her clothes off and have her with wild abandon on the sofa like some savage, he does not doubt that Petrus and Slàn are lingering somewhere near and might overhear. It would be rather funny to see the looks on their faces, but he is doing his best to be civil with them. Just barely. For now.

Crossing the room in quick strides, he plops himself down across from Aurelie and tries not to wince as he receives a full-face of sunshine through the parlor window. "Well, my lucky star. I am at your disposal all afternoon. After a conversation with your aunt and Petrus, I'm a little too weary to leave our chambers. I told them about us and... Petrus was the least pleased."

Predictably, Aurelie lets out a sound of disgust. "That man is stuck hearing naught but he wishes to hear, and no other words reach his brain. I love him, but he can be incredibly frustrating at times." The way she tightly clutches the vial of blue liquid while sprinkling herbs into the mixture speaks quite clearly on her opinion of Petrus, and Constantin wonders if she is imagining the priests neck being wrung with her own hands.

"In some regards, Petrus and my own father do not differ too much," Constantin comments lightly, "And their tendency to ignore what they want not to hear and see is one of their shared traits."

"It can sometimes be one of your less charming traits, too," his lucky star responds sharply. But, a moment later, she sighs as her furious mixing dies down into resting stillness, hands falling into her lap. "That was uncalled for. Thankfully you are nothing like Prince d'Orsay. Meeting with Mev has... left me worried."

A momentary tension in the back of his throat fades. "What happened, Aurelie?"

"She came to me seeking answers about _Anemhaid_ and implied that I've done something to High King Dunncas. I informed her that I have not seen him or heard from him since the battle and am at a loss as much as she. Allegedly not even his own clan knows where he is and have gone silent." 

"So he is missing after all. Were we in court, I would suspect foul play. I do not believe my corrupted _nadàig_ would have killed him, I gave them explicit instruction not to before the battle. I knew we would need him when the time came."

"Foul play indeed, my dear Constantin. Mev believes that Derdre may be behind his disappearance and I do not disagree." Her voice ends in a thin whisper.

His suspicions peak sharply, for no one would have a greater motive than Derdre for Dunncas' disappearance. Were he here, Constantin knows he would have eventually rallied the clans to the side of the new gods. Derdre desired his crown and from what Aurelie has said in the past, would have done anything to claim it. Not for herself, but for her people. 

"Nor do I. My mother would have sent assassins after anyone who dared even speak against my father, nevermind attempt to dethrone him. I would not put it past Derdre to be the one behind this, for there are already some clans who have proclaimed her as their leader. Dunncas would only get in the way of her path to the throne."

"Oh, Constantin..." Aurelie trails off, choking on a sob that leaves her body trembling. He immediately tears himself from his seat and sits beside her, taking her hands in his and pressing her knuckles to his lips. "I fear for Síora and Eseld. They are both with Derdre and are the backbone of her supposed rebellion. How can Síora stand beside the woman, after what she has done and is planning to do?"

Her lithe arms wrap around his shoulders as she pulls him snug against her chest and buries her tear-stained face into his neck. He presses his right palm against the curve of her back while the fingers of his left strokes through her tangle of scarlet curls comfortingly. "Hush, my lucky star... I'm sure that Síora will change her mind when she sees you. If not, then your words will. If she cares for you as much as you do for her, she will join us and be safe away from Derdre."

Her tears feel like gentle raindrops upon his scarred neck, yet he pays it no mind as he cups her trembling jaw and places tender kisses upon her wet cheeks. 

"They will be here in a few days time and I do not want to fight her, Constantin. I cannot..."

Staring into her beautiful jade eyes, he silences her words with a kiss. She tastes of salt and starlight upon his tongue, and soon her sobs melt into breathy moans against his lips. When they part, her cheeks are visibly flushed and Constantin can feel his own burning with heat. He draws her close against him as she finally calms down, her touch like fire searing away his flesh as she traces the black designs along his lips and cheeks. 

"Worry not, love. I am sure everything will be alright..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> on ol menawi | Marked One/Bonded One  
> Cengaden anedas | "Storm warriors." The clan in Vedleug.  
> Gaís rad | "Red spear." The clain in Vedrhais and Siora's clan.  
> Beraíg nodas | Beraíg nodas = "Sap bearers." The clan in Vigyígidaw.  
> tierna harh cadachtas | Title for the highest spiritual authority in Tir Fradi  
> Kwa awelam seg | “Farewell”  
> lugeid blau | “Yellow eyes” Native term for the Congregation of Merchants
> 
> Phew, that was a long one! I hope you guys enjoyed, and thank you for reading. <3
> 
> Next up:  
> Temptation distracts De Sardet from her duties...


	16. Unravel Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aurelie finds Constantin awfully distracting...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little smutty interlude.

**༄ XVI.**

They managed to make it through most of the morning audience. A great feat if ever there is one, for Aurelie's body had begun to itch and tingle with need before it had even begun. Her mind had wandered often during the affair and she struggled to keep the boredom at bay while sitting in the ornate chair next to Constantin's. Normally she finds even political pleasantries to be enrapturing; an adventure of eloquent words and half-truths but today... her mind is elsewhere.

Now that she has gone through what one might have called courtship - or, at the very least, the stage in her relationship with Constantin where both desires the other but are forced to endure strategic distancing outside their chambers - her thoughts have been solely focused on him, even when surrounded by clans vying for their forgiveness and generosity.

It is an itch that turns into a burn, rising up just beneath her skin. Every inch of her feels sensitive, from her lips, longing to be swollen with kisses, to her nipples, rubbing against the soft doeskin corset, to her belly, where her muscles flutter and flex with anticipation. Electrified, she thinks even an innocuous touch - to her arm, to her shoulder, to the curve of her waist - would send boiling heat spiraling down to rest in her pelvis. Constantin is so close, only their hands entangling between the thrones, but every part of her being yearns for there to be more touch between them. More contact with less fabric in the way to dull the potency of skin to skin connection.

Caught that way, she is only half-able to pay attention to the clan _màls_ and _doneigada_ formal greetings after Mev and Daren. Certainly she had been overjoyed to see a few familiar faces among the throng of _Yetch Fradì_ , even saddened by Daren's strong words and obvious dislike towards Constantin. But all Aurelie can think about is how his callused fingers slid down over the curve of her rump to curl around her thighs, how shockingly sensitive she was there. For she lit up like starbursts of light when it is _his_ hands that pass over the softness. 

Unable to halt it, she releases a soft sound close to a mewl.

At her side, she can see Constantin's breath hitch. Slightly below them, Petrus coughs into his gauntleted hand and raises a snowy brow in their direction. A slim man of flaxen hair and harsh, ivory tattoos flushes as he concludes his greetings and abruptly turns to exit out the audience chamber, ears red as apples.

With only Petrus to gawk at them in the room, Constantin leans in close to Aurelie, his breath washing over her ear and cheek. "Have you heard your fill of courtly pleasantries already, _minundhanem_?"

His broad hand leaves her own to spread out upon her belly, resting just below her navel and tracing the sensitive softness of her natural curve from side to side. Would that they had been alone, that his hand would have slid lower, because she feels herself grow just a little damp against her thighs. 

Laying her own trembling fingers over his, stilling his movements, she lets out a sigh. "Perhaps we should retreat," she whispers, turning her head such that she can meet his golden irses. "It is too warm inside, Constantin. Let us get some cool air outside."

Both of them know that it is not their only reason for going outside. Nevertheless, Constantin's hand slides up over her stomach and brushes just barely the bottom of her breasts, sending burning white heat spiraling down to settle low in her belly. She is released from his hold, but not before she notices the first signs of his arousal slightly straining against his burgundy pants, only half hidden by the looseness of his clothing and flutters of his velveteen doublet. Had they been alone, she would have reached out to touch him just to hear him groan.

"I-if you wish, we can conclude for the day. Everyone essential has given their greetings and three clans have yet to arrive.." Petrus interrupts them with a blush spreading across his wrinkled cheeks.

"Then you may leave to inform those waiting outside that we shall continue tomorrow. Visit Slàn after, if you would. She may need your assistance in organizing our latest arrivals." Constantin replies, not taking his eyes off her even as the Thélème priest stiffly bows and departs the chamber with haste.

With him gone, Constantin and Aurelie sneak out through the patio doors hand in hand. Outside, the sun is setting, the sky casting alight with an array of watercolour pinks, reds and golds. Only the brightest stars are yet visible resting above the horizon, glimmering pale against the fading light.

Initially unknown to her, Governor Burhan had installed a small garden rich with alchemic plants and native fauna in the back of the palace. She and Constantin had stumbled upon it one night and were overjoyed by the idea of making this their temporary hideaway, for when they simply needed to be alone. It is quite large and filled with vast quantities of imported soil rich with nutrients, allowing the flora to grow in spite of being so close to the sea. Trees of all shapes and sizes sprout from the marble like a small forest, an addition Aurelie had insisted on. A concophy of vibrant flowers, underbrush and grass span the entire garden, which is as large as another small palace.

"Where to, my lord?" She asks teasingly, dancing a few steps ahead of Constantin, who stalks after her like a hunter.

His laugh is a deep thing, like thunder, and it grows only rougher with his need as he follows her across the grass, over a small white bridge crossing a little man-made creek, and towards the shadows of trees offering hiding places for private and intimate moments. They just barely make it within the embrace of the boughs overhead, casting darkness around them to hide from eyes that might peer out into the gardens from the guest chambers, before they begin to kiss one another. Their limbs tangle together as she finally presses herself fully against his body where she desperately desires to be. There, they spend a few long minutes exchanging kisses, hands wandering to more and more erotic locations.

But it is not enough. Not nearly. Aurelie has been waiting all day to have him alone, and she does not think she can wait any longer. "Constantin," she whispers against his lips. "Find us somewhere more private so I can show my _minundhanem_ what I have been daydreaming of since we arose from bed this morning." Her hand slides down between his legs, and his choked sound of agreement has her feet dancing nervously in the grass.

Certainly there is something exciting about the recklessness of a liaison in such a public forum, and Aurelie can not help her soft laughter as Constantin sweeps her right off her feet and holds her close to his chest, taking her deeper into the trees. Somehow, he manages not to stumble over his own feet as he goes despite the fact that she leans up to kiss wherever she can reach, nuzzling and nipping at his neck, beneath his chin, closer and closer to his lips which rest so temptingly near.

No idea has she to where they go, only that it becomes darker and darker the further the sun sinks, covering them in the soft blanket of night. Constantin spins her about teasingly, listening to her squeal, before setting her delicately upon her toes. Immediately, they are kissing once again, her nails scraping down his chest across the fabric adorned with pale branches glistening with tiny rubies like leaves, just as his hand curls into the woven braids of her hair to tug back and allow for better access to her mouth.

A little tingling fire is now fully burning through her limbs. Constantin manages to tug the laces at the back of her dress, the fabric slipping over her shoulders and settling about her arms and waist, her corset falling to the grass shortly after. In return, while his hands traverse her breasts, brushing over the sensitive tips of her nipples to leave her gasping and squirming, she hastily pushes his tunic up and makes for the laces of his leggings, almost tearing the clasps free.

The first grasp of her hand around his burning sex leaves him rocking on his heels. "Let me pleasure you first, my lord," she breathes out, sinking to her knees and pulling the soft fabric with her, "And then you can use this later to pleasure me in return."

She receives no protests from him, only another deep moan and the feeling of his hand ruining her intricate hair by weaving into the strands and drawing her head close. In the past days, Aurelie has become more familiar with Constantin's body. Indeed, getting to explore him as thoroughly as he had explored her. No longer is his sex so foreign to her gaze and beneath her hands, though she has only put her mouth upon him a couple times. Gently, she presses kittenish licks and kisses against the head, tracing down one side with her lips as she stares up into his rapidly darkening eyes.

"My dearest legate," he purrs out, head rolling back luxuriously as she opens her mouth and pillows the crown of his sex upon her tongue. Almost like a cat, his fingers knead against her scalp, his lips arching subtly forward to press further, deeper, into the cavity of her mouth. She has only ever done this very few times in the past and is still inexperienced, but she does know enough to mimic the sexual act, allowing him to slide as deep into her mouth as she can take him before slowly pulling away. Moaning around him, she reaches out to stroke at the softness of his sac, wrapping her fingers around the hilt of his length that she can not reach with her lips. She watches his face unfurling into bliss and she revels in his taste and the heaviness of his scent and the way his eyes are fully half-hooded with his need.

It is not so much his taste or the weight of his length resting on her tongue and rubbing the sensitive roof of her mouth that leaves her squirming, but rather the tender look he gives her through his own wash of heat and arousal, hands massaging into the back of her head. "Your mouth is so lovely," he compliments breathily. "Darling, just like that.." His voice rolls deeper and deeper into a groan.

She is doing this to him. And she loves every moment. The way this act has been described in whispers before has sounded so degrading, but nothing about servicing him this way feels lowly. Instead, she sucks around his length, taking him deep, and shivers at the shattered noise he tries to stifle in the back of his throat. Against the cold air, her nipples grow hard and tender, and she can not resist rubbing over one swollen bud with her fingers, circling it again and again just to feel the sparkles of energy and pleasure that dance down her spine.

With satisfaction - and need - burning in her gut, she watches the telltale flush spreading up his body, the shivers that wrack his spine. He is doing his best to remain quiet, but she can still hear him panting quickly into the cooling evening air, and she knows he is growing close to his finish.

"Aurelie," he hisses out, tugging gently at her scarlet mane until her mouth slips away from his sex entirely. "We would not want to finish too soon. Let me have my turn as well."

Aurelie would have knelt there, worshipping his sex for hours, but she also wants to join fully this night, not tire him out too much before they even have a chance to complete their union and be forced to wait. So, she doesn't resist as he sinks to his knees into the grass and pushes her back, spreading out in their secluded clearing. Both her hands and his struggle to unlace her skintight leggings, and she has never been happier to have forgone undergarments, even if it's a bit unspeakable to be bare underneath.

It is more than worth it to see the realization on his scarred face that she has been wandering about all day with nothing beneath her pants at all. Those eyes darken to almost black, looking up from her spreading thighs to her face and then back to where her dampness glistens in the faint glimmers of torchlight and moonlight breaking through their thick covering of leaves.

Welcomingly, she spreads her thighs further, arching her back to raise her breasts, encouraging him to touch her anywhere and everywhere because, even with her intimate places exposed to the cool night air, she still feels lit aflame by his gaze traversing her body appreciatively. She glances down to his erect sex, thick and reddened at the crown, and feels breathless knowing that it is going to be inside of her tonight. 

Laughing, she straddles his hips, more than happy to take him in hand and direct him into her body, ignoring the way the slickness of their joining is already seeping down her inner thigh in favor of feeling him part her inner walls open again and sink deep, sending a jolt of almost too-bright and too-sensitive bliss shooting up her spine like silver lightning. His cheeks, already flushed, gain a red hue to compliment the sweat gathering at his temples and streaking through his tangle of pale gold curls, and his back stretches and arches luxuriously to push even deeper into her velvety embrace. Moaning with satisfaction at being joined, she grips his shoulders tightly and rocks.

Large hands are squeezing about her hips, fingertips digging into her freckled skin and he presses up to meet each of her downward strokes. Slow and sensual, but no less satisfying as she feels him stroke her bare skin, cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples, brushing over her curves, then reaching down to grasp her buttocks and squeeze.

He holds her there and thrusts upwards. The resulting spike of pleasure, the dizzy headiness that rests upon her brow as a crown, has her eyes rolling back, has her toes curling, has her voice breaking into a quiet wail.

Naturally, he repeats the motion. Again and again, until she is shaking all over.

"I am supposed to be riding you," she says breathlessly, bearing her weight down to take him as deeply as he can reach. It almost feels like he is pushing all the way behind her navel, so far in that she trembles and lets out a soft bleat, fingers digging into his shoulders. "Here you are, doing half the work still."

"I am a man of action," he pants out in response, grinning toothly and honey eyes glowing brighter and brighter by the second. 

She leans over him, and they share a kiss. "I can appreciate that."

One hand tangles in her hair and connects their mouths again, tongue brushing between their parted lips, sliding against one another in a splash of their shared natural tastes and scents. As incorrigibly as he does anything, he teases her into opening her mouth wider, surging in to fill her mouth with an invasion of sensual warmth and pleasure as all-encompassing as that which he uses to fill her below. Helplessly, she moans into him and presses down again.

Feeling overfull and sensitive as he slides in deep, she whimpers her orgasm into his mouth and writhes against his chest, her tender nipples rubbing against his rougher clothes, her thighs squeezing in around his hips. For long moments, she mindlessly enjoys the convulsions of her inner muscles sending new waves of light and weightlessness through her body, all the way out to her tingling fingers and toes, each light flashing behind her eyes and leaving her blind. And then falling into the down-pillow of the afterglow, jerking softly with residual aftershocks as he rocks up into her gently. The rasp of his callused palms over her bottom and biting into her inner thighs, sending another jolt through her belly.

They part. "Satisfied?" Constantin asks playfully.

"Not a chance," she answers, curling her fingers into his hair - careful to avoid the branches - knowing that he enjoys the demanding nature of the gesture. "I want at least one more, _minundhanem_. I have been impatiently waiting for you all afternoon."

"Just this afternoon?" He pulls her down upon his turgid member again, and she lets out a hiccuping gasp.

"Maybe a bit longer than that," She admits, sitting up and arching her back to fully display her breasts before his eyes, rosy nubs hard and pointing out into the cold air, skin still dappled with the marks of their last coupling and with delicate swirls that are warm and pulsing with her heartbeat. "My nipples are still a bit tender from last night. Best that you keep them that way, Constantin."

His fingers pluck at one, and she gasps, pulling tight about his sex.

"I shall keep that in mind."

He pinches the tender little bud, and she feels her inner walls ripple in bliss. His other hand slide down to stroke around her sex, thumb brushing across her clitoris.

"And I shall make sure that you are left not unsatisfied," he adds, sounding impossibly smug. "How does that sound, dearest star?"

"Perfect," she gasps out. "Perfect."

And it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up:
> 
> Siora ponders events following Anemhaid and receives startling news from Derdre.


	17. Horizons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siora tries to heal after Anemhaid, but Derdre brings news that the darkness has not left Tir Fradi entirely...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of part 2 of the story and this first chapter has been split, as it's quite a long one. Hope you enjoy!

**༄ XVII.**

Before  _ renaigse _ ever stepped foot on Tír Fradì, it was a time of everlasting peace. One just needed to know how to care for bumps, scrapes, and the occasional broken bone or burn. There was no bloody, painful ravaging of bodies, impaled upon blades, rent and torn apart through violence and hatred. Sometimes there were border skirmishes among the Yetch Fradì, but nothing quite like the blood spilt when the factions landed on the shores of her home. At least, that is what her mother had told her.

The violence only escalated as the years passed, and then there was  _ Anemhaid _ .

Sìora had witnessed death, she had wrought it herself. But  _ Anemhaid _ was something else. 

What little she did remember of the battle was standing side by side with her best friend and companion, De Sardet, on a slab of volcanic rock overlooking the blood-stained battlefield and feeling... helpless. Bodies were strewn about, and she tried hard not to focus her eyes, not to allow herself to make out entrails peeking out of slit stomachs or brain matter dashed against stone. She desperately pretended that her people, her clansmen were just sleeping. That was when De Sardet placed a tentative hand upon her shoulder and smiled softly before leaving her to delve deeper into  _ Anemhaid _ , to find and slay her cousin. That was the last she had ever seen her friend.

Everything after was a blur. But she remembered hearing a breathy, gurgling voice, remembered kneeling next to a man, barely breathing, with a  _ nádaig's _ spear embedded in his stomach.

༄

_ Reaching out, her hands hovered over the shaft where it split open flesh and poured blood onto the earth below. Despair burst in her chest as she leaned over the stranger, touching a painted, blanched face with shaking fingertips, her gaze meeting half-hooded, pain-hazed eyes. Red slowly dripped from the corner of softly moving lips. _

_ "I cannot..." She shook her head and felt her eyes sting. She couldn't understand what the other native was trying to say as those lips moved, more splatters of dark spreading down onto unblemished white.  _

_ She could do nothing more than sit here, staring into vibrant, terrified eyes and watch their brilliance fade into death. Such wounds could not be treated with mere bandages and Sìora had used up all her health potions earlier. Her hovering hands settled, instead grasping the fingers of the poor dying creature before her, not knowing what else to do but wait for the inevitable.  _

_ Gently, weakly, the other native squeezed back. A tiny smile twitched on those lips. _

_ The breathing ceased. _

_ And Sìora could do nothing. Nothing at all. The hands gripping hers went limp and slipped down to rest on the ground, still and free, empty of life. _

༄

The young  _ doneigad _ had many a nightmare about that death, and many more deaths after. The feeling of helpelessness - of uselessness and barreness - never dissipated. Only amplified with the loss of De Sardet. She wanted so badly to help, to do what she trained for as she watched those around her dying, falling to the ice or the cold or the claws and teeth of the enemy. She wanted to help her people, protect them, guard their health and well-being, keep them whole.

But she could not, it was as if all her knowledge vanished. Each time another perished before her eyes, she would think back and remember the native in  _ Anemhaid _ , and her heart burned.

_ Verdhais _ was a welcome respite.

There was peace within the forest she called home. Certainly, they had warriors, but they had safety as well. However each evening there was a new report of the death toll, and as members of other clans fled to  _ Verdhais _ , tents were set up around the village, littered with warriors who were struck down by beasts or by festering wounds, with only Sìora to attend to them. Still, it was quiet, the trees cradling their small world, housing them inside, blocking out Constantin's darkness.

And then one day there were shouted words. A warrior wearing  _ Cengaden anedas _ colours was carried into the village, his entire left side bloody, a ragged wound stretching from shoulder to hip, part of it down to the bone, showcasing ribs lined with the marks of sharp teeth. It made Siora's stomach turn.

Yet with great strength, she had overcame her fear and hesitation and got to work.

She remembered her love of learning about medical remedies to soothe the pain of those around her. A love of learning to ease suffering, to fix, to heal... to save. She loved standing at the beside of her patient and watching her hands work as if from a great distance, watching the days pass, watching those under her care become hale and whole again. When her patients departed, she loved seeing them on their own feet, cheeks flushed with healthy colour.

And she loved feeling that helplessness that haunted her ever since  _ Anemhaid _ slowly drain away, the empty chasm behind filled with satisfaction, with affection, with delight.

Equally, the loss of a patient was terrible, like the loss of a good friend. But it was not a loss through helplessness, through inability to act. Even then, she could rest quietly knowing that she had done all that she could to ease suffering, to send her dear patients into their next life as gently as she could bear, knowing they would at least be somewhere without war and death and blood.

Sìora did not think she could stop even if she tried.

She was saving them, protecting them. Her family. Her people.

This was where she belonged. Not on the battlefield with a sword in hand. Not in a war council with maps and strategies and thoughts of death on her mind. She belonged in the Healing Hut, smelling of sweet herbs and the airy open roofs letting in fresh air with thoughts only of helping her fellow kinsmen, of patching up their hurts and weariness.

And for a little while, she dove into her work, briefly forgetting about her woes and the growing ache of her heart.

  
  


༄

"Any news on Constantin's whereabouts?" Sìora's throat constricted. She must have looked pale, drawn and sleepless, for Eseld sent her a confused and slightly concerned glance. A hand settled on her shoulder.

" _ Andevaurshd tír se _ ,  _ sìr _ ," the  _ mál _ replied. "One of Derdre's scouts report that he has returned to New Sérėne, and his creatures with him."

Surprise must have shown on her face, for her sister continued. "They said he looks like an  _ on ol menawi now _ .."

Indeed, her face was probably the colour of spilt milk. All the blood drained from her cheeks. "He truly won… all that sacrifice for naught.." Trailing off, Sìora bit her lower lip and looked anywhere but Eseld. "Any word of De Sardet?"

“About that,” Eseld’s voice dropped into a murmur, “Derdre will tell you the rest. You can find her in the spare hut.”

Sìora was hardly soothed in the least. She had felt it, a tiny flicker of light on the edges of her sub consciousness. Something visceral shuddered through her body, a strange sort of delight, of eagerness that bordered on pain. Her eyes widened as she beheld the  _ mál _ . "I will make my way there, then...."

༄

A roaring fire greeted Sìora as she entered the hut, silently closing the great oak door behind her. Derdre stood just off to the side, watching the flames flicker and dance in silent contemplation. She nearly jumped out of her skin when Sìora cleared her throat, and joined the  _ mál’s _ side. 

“De Sardet is alive,” Derdre’s voice was devoid of emotion, save for the faintest tremble. "Apparently she drained  _ En on mil frichtimen _ alongside Constantin and now willingly acts as his right hand. She has betrayed us."

Sìora held still, hardly daring to breathe where she stood next to the  _ mál _ . One truth, one painful discovery left her feeling as though the world had collapsed, and that she could be certain of nothing. Not De Sardet. Not herself. Not even her own mind. The tower of her trust had broken the foundations, crumbled and toppled and buried her beneath thousands of tons of stones carved from secrets cemented in place with the glue of sweet memories.

Sweet memories of traveling together, sharing stories around a fire, their laughter lighting the shadows crawling over the land until they were banished from her sight. Memories of friendship, of teaching De Sardet the mysteries of her culture, of always doing the right thing. Memories of lying beneath the wide open sky, blanketed by only darkness and cushioned by only the thick grass and earth, where nothing existed in the world but fellowship and trust.

Sìora trusted De Sardet with her life, with the lives of her people. 

What a fool she had been.

_ "You should not trust a renaigse so easily, sír." _ Eseld had warned.

_ "De Sardet always does what she believes is right, but what if her intuition is wrong one day?" _ Aphra had questioned.

_ "Watch her closely. Keep your council to yourself," _ Derdre had advised.

Blinded, infatuated, fascinated, she had ignored them all. For they did not know De Sardet, never witnessed her joyful laughter and basked in her golden warmth and her sweet, jade eyes. They could not possibly understand Sìora's feelings. They could not possibly condemn her closest friend on a mere whim of their cold hearts. For what did they know?

More than she had. They had trusted their intuition and had not been blinded by powerful, false light and slippery, seductive words.

Even now within the warm hut, Sìora shivered, listening to the crackling fire in the center. Derdre remained ever silent and watchful, almost sickenly gleeful as she took in the variety of emotions flitting across Sìora's features. She can imagine De Sardets hands, hands that pulled her into long hugs and wielded a stone sword with great proficiency, that could make a poor soul scream and wail with but a slash, could draw forth the blackest secrets from a heart in but an hour. Now stained in blood and horror.

Everything she thought she had known felt wrong. Sullied and violated. She taught De Sardet her people's language, history and traditions. Pain rippled through her at the thought, almost physical in the destruction it wrought, in the sting of tears brought to the eyes that had not cried since the long days of terror and shadow wrought by Constantin.

In the wake of devastation, what was left? Not her freedom. Not her dignity or pride. Not her innocence. Not even blessed ignorance. There was nothing but knowledge of betrayal, for even the fury that burned in her heart of hearts was tempered and smothered by the powerful devotion she felt towards her friend.

Reality had been uprooted, revealed for what it was - nothing but a naive daydream. The truth slashed across her spirit like a rusted blade and left her broken on the ground. Uncertainty. Terror. Confusion. Betrayal so powerful that she wanted to scream and cry, to break something, to wrap her fingers around De Sardet's throat and strangle her so that voice and those hands never fully carry out her ultimate betrayal of Sìora's unwavering trust.

Frightened to death by those thoughts the  _ doneigad _ closed her eyes and prayed. She would need all her strength to balance on the edge of disaster that had uprooted her soul. The war was only just beginning, and if she did not do something she would lose before it even began. Now the betrayed would become the betrayer and the cursed would become the savior.

And then, when all was said and done, when the last vestiges of her scarred and shattered soul had been crushed to dust by hatred in those jade eyes, she could close her eyes and welcome peace that lay only behind the cage of the body.

Finally, she turned to Derdre.

"How do we save Tír Fradì?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> andevaurshd tír se | “May the earth welcome her”  
> Sìr | “Sister”
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Next up: Siora arrives in Hikmet alongside Derdre and Eseld.


	18. Colder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War threatens to spill out across the clans as they begin to take sides and Siora arrives in Hikmet to find De Sardet unexpectedly changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much research, here is a list of the canonical clans and their leaders. This is very important as they will be mentioned quite a bit during the chapter. There are some I'm missing and I may have to create OC's as their leaders since there is little information on them. But that shall be later.
> 
> Clans and their leaders  
> Doneia egsregaw - Mal: Daren  
> Sisaig cnameis - Doneigad: Slan  
> Cengaden anedas - Mal: Derdre  
> Beraig nodas - Mal/doneigad: Dunncas  
> Voglaig credais - Doneigad: Glendan  
> Gais rad - Mal: Eseld | Doneigad: Siora

**༄ XVIII.**

There is a sense of nervous anticipation in Sìora's belly.

And she despises it.

For days while on the road, rumors have been circulating with the ferocity of wildfire. Rumors that should have put her off even the most stubborn nightmares and fantasies that have been haunting her, day and night, with visions of the hideous, scarred Constantin in the fair arms of his cousin amid sheets of carmine silk. 

From beside her, Derdre and one of her warriors are whispering about the new gods, how they have returned from their murder of _En on mil frichtimen_ only to begin making trouble quickly, cursed as they are. There is talk of the possibility of abduction, of Constantin using his corruptive magic on his cousin to persuade her to his side.

Something like that would make any native under the perceptive eye of the former heir nervous. Sìora went white in the face upon hearing such a rumor from the lips of the _mál_ , and she feels as though she is floating on a wind of mild panic until the warrior and Derdre finally depart.

"Nonsense," Eseld mutters as soon as the pair are out of earshot. "That might be what our scouts have heard, but it is a different story according to the other clans."

Intrigued, Sìora listens. More because her heart has been working double-time in her chest and she needed to know if she should be even more worried about De Sardet falling prey to Constantin's vile powers.

"What do you mean?"

"I heard from a _Doneia egsregaw_ hunter that he saw the pair leave New Sérène hand in hand, with De Sardet free of any black marks or blemishes usually left from Constantin's corruption," her sister explains. "In fact, they said Constantin appeared to treat De Sardet as an equal more than a prisoner."

While that does seem more plausible, it nevertheless turns Sìora's stomach, thinking that her friend lives a life of happiness so soon after the needless bloodshed of _Anemhaid_. 

_Why does it even matter?_ Stubbornly, she digs her teeth into her cheek and trudges onwards only to come to a sudden halt just as the great trees give way to fields of golden wheat.

Eseld stops beside her and lays a knowing hand on her shoulder, fingers squeezing her there.

Before them lay the smoking ruins of Hikmet, its walls torn asunder, massive stones scattered about the Bridge Alliance's crown jewel. Legions of shadowy beasts stalk the plains outside but pay no mind to the passing natives. Sìora clutches the pommel of her sword instinctively, keeping one eye trained on a nearby corrupted _nadaig glendemen_ . To think such creatures were beautiful once and dedicated to the protection of the _Yetch Fradì_. Now they are but shadows of their former selves, twisted and mutilated to serve Constantin's whims.

Sìora tightens her grip about the stone sword and trudges on.

༄

The palace of the Bridge Alliance is just as lavish and beautiful as the graceful arches of silver and the dripping chandeliers and drapery of pearls which have so disgusted the _doneigad_ in the past. 

The drapery used to be of rich emerald, with the faction insignia embroidered in gold thread but now they are ebony and snow, with a silver insignia in the center that depicts a leafless tree. Sìora recalls how intrigued she had been when she first arrived here and the stark differences there were between the Thélème and Bridge Alliance styles of decor. Where Thélème preferred diaphanous silks and delicate lace, the Bridge Alliance decorated in bold color and heavy fabric, and where Thélėme favored airy beauty and smoothed curves, the Bridge Alliance instead made their palace of sharp and precise angles and symmetrical, patterned designs.

To Sìora, this seems familiar but she feels out of place in her simple leathers and well-traveled boots, though she makes no issue nor shows any sign. Derdre and Eseld on the other hand, are dressed in vibrant feathers and unblemished tan leggings and armor. Charcoal rims their eyes, lips and noses in intricate designs befitting their respective clans and status.

They present themselves to their escort, but between them is an empty space. Perhaps formal and acceptable, but unexpected coming from such a tightly knit group. Of course, their escort makes no comment and only bows in greeting. "This way. My lord Constantin and lady De Sardet await."

Taken up the stairs, Sìora traverses mazes of broad halls filled with the finest carpeting and the loveliest paintings and works of sculpture. Once again she is taken aback by the differences between her culture and that of the Bridge Alliance, for the _Yetch Fradì_ are of nature and prefer their homes, while graceful, to be open and spacious rather than cluttered with things. Here, every fork in the halls has a table, and every table has ornaments tastefully arranged to complement the colour and style and the nearby paintings and the wallpaper and the shade of the floor. Which, she notes, still bears the remains of dried blood hidden between the cracks of wood and marble. Flower arrangements adorn each surface, freshly-cut and smelling heavenly, but arranged to a degree of precision that Sìora wonders if they'd passed by the same one already before and are going in endless circles.

Somehow, though, they reach their destination. 

The door is familiar but no different from any other they have passed, for it is of heavy, dark wood with glossy finish and a brass knob. The _Yetch Fradì_ prefer open doorways, and even the concept of a front door had at first been a strange thing to Sìora when she first left her sheltered life long ago. 

She can see the barely-there resemblance of native touches here and there, small things that were not there before. No doubt the clans who have sided with Constantin have adjusted a few details. Little else reveals the palace's former inhabitants, for this place is now the home of a self-proclaimed god, even if lacking in his usual extravagance.

The escort's knock is soft, and Sìora wonders if the occupants inside could even hear such an unobtrusive little whimper of a sound. Yet, they hear a voice from within bidding them enter and the servant opens the door, holding it abroad for the party as they pass within its threshold.

Eseld's struggles not to gasp and Derdre suddenly tenses beside her, fingers twitching over the hilt of her sword.

There are more people waiting within than Sìora would have liked.

Upon his throne, oaken and wide and carved in the shape of a large tree with pearlescent stones and amber and obsidian, Constantin d'Orsay perches, silver-blonde with eyes of luminous yellow. On his right side in an identical throne sits De Sardet, looking every bit as nacerous and otherworldly as the rumors spoke. Constantin's visage looms over De Sardet , dressed in a midnight-blue cloak with matching apparel, slightly resembling what native men wear. A circlet of branches entwined with locks of pale honey wraps about his head, horns reminiscent of _on ol menawi._

Not surprisingly, Petrus stands a little ways below the dias in his usual plate armor. The unpainted face of Slán remains impassive at his side, her ruby hair cropped close to her head. Her eyes flicker from face to face, careful to avoid the one she has most longed to see sitting next to her cousin. 

The _doneigad_ recognizes the others. The _doneia egsrefaw mál_ , Daren and the _teirna harh cadachtas_ , Mev are there with eyes empty and faces blank. Derdre blanches upon seeing her, lips twisting into a scowl. Months prior the _mál_ had sent a missive to Mev but received nothing in reply. Clearly she has chosen a side, as has Sìora. It will certainly make Derdre's claim of legitimacy all the more difficult.

Only as they stiffly move towards the thrones, does Sìora finally meet De Sardet's cold stare.

A sick feeling rises within her, a twisting mass of nerves and terror and pain and hollow betrayal all rolled up and trying to force their way up to her throat as she stills, feeling her heartbeat skitter over the bars of her ribcage. The sound of her laughter is achingly familiar, belonging to a voice she was certain she would never hear again. Sìora wonders if she would die on the spot, meeting the sharp jade eyes of the woman she once called _carants_ , now in the guise of an enemy. 

She is as beautiful as she remembers. White armor, layered in albino _lewolan_ scales with sharp points - Sìora feels herself shudder, lacerations across her body flashing to life in glimmers of pain as she recalls claws digging into her flesh, feeling them tear through fabric and mail like paper - freshly adorned with red ash in the form of symbols only known to the _Yetch Fradì_ . Scarlet hair can not have made a harsher contrast to the image of death, lustrous and flowing in the faint sunlight with a familiar, burnished gleam. Like a beacon, the swirling tendrils etched into De Sardet's skin are glowing dimly with a phosphorescent pallor that reminds Sìora of the sun as it breaks through the dawn sky. Branches of white birch sprout from either side her head, each twig adorned with the occasional blood-red leaf that inadvertently fascinates the _doneigad_.

Her eyes are no longer the shade of dewy moss, laced with flecks of golden light and the twinkle of a million stars. Instead, they are darker, filled with wild, fey fire that seems to travel across Sìoras slightly trembling body in scorching waves. The lush jade matches perfectly with the smirk that plays across her lips, filled to the brim in satisfaction and mock arrogance. Exuding power like nothing Sìora has ever felt before. 

This... thing is not De Sardet. It is a monster.

Or maybe, De Sardet has always been this and she had been unable to see.

The last slivers of hope that perhaps there is something left within her former friend that will be open to reason now fades into shadow. There is no reasoning with this being, and Sìora meets the stare head-on, desperately stifling the tears that rise in the corners of her eyes, boiling and stinging as her world warps onto its side and bleeds colour and fire.

"I imagine it has been quite some time since you have graced these halls with your presence Sìora," De Sardet says in a way of greeting, her smile cool and distant as the far-off glimmer of starlight on the waves. Turning towards her other two companions, offering them a slight smile. "Derdre and Eseld, we welcome you to what was formally Hikmet."

Things are already strained. She can sense it in the air, like a thick blanket that surrounds her wherever she goes and tainted wherever she steps so long as she is within Tír Fradì. It is here in Constantin's resentment, in his dark aura. In Slán's calm acceptance hiding underneath her obvious disapproval. Now, more than ever, it has the feeling of a cloying, suffocating smoke of deceptive sweetness, smelling so welcoming but yielding nothing but ice underneath. Of course, neither party is pleased with the other. Both sides lust for rule of Tìr Fradì, but Sìora would cast her soul into the fiery mouth of inferno before she allowed Constantin dominion over her people.

She has not regretted her decision. Even now. 

Besides, she is not here for niceties.

"Indeed," Sìora agrees, "Your summons piqued our curiosity. It is odd that you would begin your reign with needless bloodshed so soon after _Anemhaid_."

"You stand in the presence of the newly crowned gods of Tír Fradì," Petrus' thin voice rings out across the audience chamber as he takes a step towards them, silver-blue armor reflecting the rays of the dying sun. "Pledge your allegiance to lord Constantin d'Orsay and lady Aurelie De Sardet or suffer the consequences."

Sìoras green eyes widen but she remains motionless, glancing at the pallid expression of Mev who stands but a few feet away. The _teirna harh cadachtas_ merely offers the _doneigad_ a grim nod.

"I will do no such thing,"Sìora growls out before Derdre can step in, her voice raw from the swell of emotion in her throat and the wetness of her sorrow building in her sinuses. "You have _no right._ "

"No right?" The beautiful form of Aurelie lifts herself from her chair and glides towards Sìora, halting with that lie of a face mere inches away. Constantin wordlessly follows suit, the hem of his azure cloak trailing like a shadow behind him. If she is truly defiant - the stubborn will of the _Yetch Fradì_ in her breast - she might lunge forward like a rabid animal despite knowing De Sardet would overpower her with ease. As it is, though, she doesn't think she can summon the physical strength, not when a mixture of exhaustion, defeat and despair ties themselves to her body like weights and holds her down more effectively than any chains.

Two fingers stroke down her cheek, tilting up her chin such that blazing eyes could cut their way across the 'gods' pale face.

"We are the _only_ ones with that right," Constantin smiles beside De Sardet and Sìora flinches upon hearing the thunderous tone of his voice. "Are we not filled with _En on mil frichtimen's_ power? Are we not now of _Yetch Fradì_ blood?"

"Do not pretend you did not slaughter hundreds of your precious 'kin' in the attempt to gain that power," the _doneigad_ snarls, wanting desperately to close her eyes against the dominating will of the two beings but finding herself incapable of looking away whilst the connection between them holds fast. "I shall not be fooled again."

"Is that so...?"

Soft touches kiss their way over her trembling hands as De Sardet takes them in her own, offering comfort despite the cold manner with which she speaks. 

"This has all been done for the sake of the natives on Tír Fradì, and I could not abandon Constantin, Sìora," De Sardet explains in a whisper that only she can hear. "You know better than most how I feel about him. You have _always_ known."

"But is there a point to all this death? To the suffering you have brought us? Since you betrayed us - your friends and allies - you have caused nothing but grief and bloodshed." 

"Is that what you have heard?" De Sardet murmurs, disbelief and regret shimmering in her green irises. She sneaks a glance at Derdre who is barely able to contain her rage, shaking as she is with gritted teeth. The former legate releases Sìora’s hands, she and Constantin leaving to resume their seats upon the dias.

"And here I thought you would be overjoyed by the slaughter of the Bridge Alliance. Aurelie told me you were there for Doctor Asili's execution. You saw what atrocities he and alchemists conducted on your people." Constantin mutters.

"We wanted them to leave Tír Fradì," Derdre corrects with a sneer. "Not drown in a pool of their own blood. I have heard reports that even the children were not spared."

Immediately, De Sardet stands. "You speak false truths, _mál_. I have no doubt that such reports were fabricated by your own hands."

"Who would dare believe your word over mine, _renaigse_ ? You, who betrayed your allies for a pretty _lugeid blau_ cock."

All around, the gathering of natives rose in murmurs, eyes flashing and darting about. Even now, Derdre is standing in defiance rather than cowering, a darkened splash of colour all across her nose and seeping into her eye sockets. It is an ugly mark indeed, and none can mistake it for anything other than a hastily healed scar made by the claw of some beast. Sìora treated the wound herself shortly after _Anemhaid_ when Derdre first fled to _Verdhais_ . She was barely conscious and her face was a mess of torn flesh, muscle and blood. Later she swore it was a _nádaig_ that had attacked her during the battle.

In spite of Derdre's crude words, Sìora admires her ferocity. If this proud, unbroken woman is not worthy of High Queen then none are.

"You know nothing, Derdre of _Cengaden anedas_ ." De Sardet calmly breaks the silence as she stares down at the _mál_ from atop the dias. "And we will not tolerate your falsity here. If you have only come to insult us, then you may take leave and prepare for war."

Derdre's eyes narrow, though De Sardet seems unmoved and unconcerned.

Finally, the _mál_ takes a confident step forward and slightly dips her head. "I have come seeking the position of High Queen of Tír Fradì and am backed by _Gaìs rad_ , _Voglaíg credaís_ and _Beraíg nodas."_

Sìora can clearly see the exasperation and annoyance in De Sardet's expression as she towers above them. Much like the former legate, Sìora's nature is in wearing a smile and soothing tempers, trying to keep the peace, and she likes to think she is rather good at it after all these years at De Sardet's side. Now, though, she feels little need to soothe the whole outburst away, finds her tongue longing to spew forth words just as bladed and venomous as Derdre. Not for her own sake, but because of her people. Of what De Sardet and Constantin have cost the _Yetch Fradì_. Of the lives they so mercilessly took and built a throne upon. 

She feels her temper, usually a quietly purring beast in the back of her mind, stir and hiss with fury.

Just as the tension reaches its peak Derdre brushes her fingers over the hilt of her sword and Mev takes a step forward. "Dunncas is still the High King, as you well know. It is rather presumptuous that you would make a bid for his position when he has only been missing a few months."

"Dunncas is not missing," Sìora interjects, "He is dead."

There are so many expressions crossing the faces of those few before her. A little bit of shocked horror. A little bit of surprise and disbelief. And no small amount of fury and sadness, for Dunncas was highly respected and loved among the _Yetch Fradì_. De Sardet herself seemed to form a bond with the man who was wise beyond his years. The man who would have surely healed Tír Fradì of its dark wounds.

Upon his throne, Constantin is no longer smiling.

"Is this true, Derdre?" the former prince asks, addressing the scowling _mál_ , still looking no more scolded or sorry for the words she spoke earlier.

"We found him in the woods, torn to shreds by corrupted beasts" the woman sneers out. "I know that it was your creatures who killed our High King, and under your orders! Honestly, I am not surprised that De Sardet even lets you touch her with those bloodstained hands of yours, for her own are equally tainted with the blood of her people! A whore is the kindest she should be called! Traitorous bitch and betrayer of kin is what she is!"

Appropriately, Petrus and Slán are enraged by such harsh words against De Sardet. Whereas Mev and Daren are both deathly silent, their faces pale and eyes wide with shock. Constantin is no longer leaning back in his throne but is sitting up straight with the brilliance of stars in his golden eyes. At his side, De Sardet is alert, her hand resting upon his forearm where it stays still on the armrest of his throne, fingers curling tautly.

Mev and Daren hide their emotions through a cold and impassive mask in the face of obvious confrontation, their eyes glimmering with profound melancholy in the shadows. In each one of them Sìora can see the bitterness festering and rotting through even the most steadfast of hearts. Constantin's corruption, his darkness, resides in them all. Especially De Sardet, though her heart aches to admit it.

"I may not agree with the tone Derdre used," Sìora eventually speaks. "But I can confirm that I saw the body of High King Dunncas myself. As did Eseld and Glendan of _Vogaíg credaís_ . We gave his body over to _Beraíg nodas_ to be buried alongside his kin."

"Then we are in need of a new High King once again..." Slán barely chokes out, tears gathering in her emerald gaze.

All eyes turn to Constantin and De Sardet.

The former legate is solemn-faced, though her fingers are no longer clenching upon the rests of the throne. The whispers fade into an unsettling silence, and even the unrepentant Derdre appears somewhat uncomfortable with the couple's unblinking judgement. Barely can Sìora meet those eyes for their heaviness. Such is often the gazes of those who have witnessed death and hardship. 

"Have you physical evidence to indicate truthfulness of the words you speak?" Mev asks calmly. "Or is this another elaborate deception?"

Sìora gives Eseld a slight nod and her sister reaches into the pouch at her side, pulling forth a bloodied crown of twisted roots and holds it up for all those gathered to see. 

It is the very same crown De Sardet had given Dunncas.

"Then it is true... Constantin?" the scarlet haired woman glances down at her lover with obvious dismay but the prince merely shakes his head and forms his lips into a thin line. 

"I had nothing to do with it. I gave no order to have him killed."

Sìora's teeth clench. How she would like to force him to admit his role in this, be able to act out in violence without repercssions, for she would have felt as if she gained even a little bit of justice and truth for Dunncas' murder. 

"We must elect a new High King, for your rule can not be made absolute without one," Slán speaks, voice trembling despite her stern expression. 

"Be gone from our halls for today," De Sardet declares, waving her hand in dismissal. "I have no more desire to see your faces after this horrible news. We will inform you of our decision at a later date."

At that, De Sardet's gaze settles upon Sìora, who feels the weight of it down to her bones. It reminds her so painfully of when her eyes were not like chips of ice, but soft and warm. She almost looks away. "Let us soon speak privately, Sìora. We have much to discuss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Lugeid blau | "Yellow eyes" Term for the Congregation  
> Renaigse | "Foreigner"  
> Albino lewolan | Lizard-like creature in Greedfall. Encountered during one of the later missions.
> 
> I'm sure some of you are wondering why DS and Connie seemed so different in this chapter, and I apologize if you were expecting a warmer reunion. This chapter is being told from Siora's perspective, so this is what /she sees/ and not necessarily what they're thinking/feeling. As we get further into part 2 of our story, I am wondering if there are any pov's you'd like to read more of. I've been keeping my writing to the main four (Connie, DS, Vasco and Siora) but if asked I'll add in a Petrus, Slan, Kurt or Derdre pov. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	19. Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which De Sardet and Siora try to figure out where they stand with one another.

**༄ XIX.**

There are many days that Aurelie could have considered her worst.

The day she found Prince d'Orsay beating Constantin half to death in a drunken rage. The first night away from Sérène, sleeping in the cold, her heart empty. The day she had first spilled innocent blood in the slums of her home alongside Kurt after a training session gone wrong.

The day she left her mother to die alone within those cold, palace walls. 

The day of the Battle of  _ Anemhaid _ , the battlefield dawned red with carnage as far as the eye could see. When Constantin placed a small dagger into her shaking palms, sorrow, madness and longing dancing in his golden eyes.

But none of them felt close to what she felt now, the utter desolation that overtook her as she stood stockstill in the room, alone with only the flickering fire and cold, empty stone. Long since had angry footsteps faded into the distance, but they still seem to ring in her ears with dire finality.

Family and duty are supposed to come first, and there is little Aurelie values more than Constantin and their vision of the future.

_ "All of this... it is absolutely insane! How could you agree to this? How could you?" _

_ "We have no choice!" _

_ "There is always a choice!" _

Shouting and fiery tempers had clashed. Broken glass littered the floor around her boots, but Aurelie barely saw any of it. Her eyes stayed glued helplessly to the doorway. Hoping. Praying that Síora would come running back.

_ "Not this time. I couldn't do it, Síora. I could not kill the man I love, the man I grew up with!" _

_ "It's wrong! Why would you...? How could you even think...?" _

_ "Please, understand." _

Bereft, Aurelie sat down, ignoring the sharp prickle of shards cutting into her flesh. Harsh light, vicious crimson streaked across the stone, fading, falling slowly downwards into darkness. She had not the energy to stand, to chase. Her throat felt swollen, her heart settled at her toes, a sharp sting behind her eyes.

_ "But I can't. I can't understand." _

_ "Please, Síora - " _

_ "It makes me sick." _

_ "You knew it would come to this eventually. You knew better than Vasco how I felt about him. Yes, he has changed, yes he has done terrible things. But I will not stray from his side..." _

_ "You make me sick. I can hardly look upon you and call you 'carants'!" _

Sharp pain, like fire building upwards in her chest, scalding bile at the back of her throat, its bitter taste on her palate. Aurelie lowered her head, frantically trying to hold back the hot tears burning their way down her cheeks, dripping onto the stone beneath.

_ "Sìora -" _

_ "You do not see the darkness within him, but I do. This... what you're doing is murder and I will have no part in this travesty. This sin." _

_ "Please, Síora..." _

_ "No! Leave me be, I need time... time to think."  _

Her eyes so green like blades of grass dancing in _ Verdhais _ , filled with such hatred and fear, directed at  _ her _ . Aurelie thought it might kill her, so powerful was the pain. No battle-wound ever felt like this, so raw and open, rubbed down with salt and filled with poison, slowly blackening her veins and deadening her nerves, cutting off the lifesblood.

And then there had been footsteps, echoing down the halls. And then silence. Nothing.

  
  


༄

  
  


A few days later, Aurelie is preparing for bed when she hears a knock at the door. Heart in her throat, she bids the person entry and waits. 

The night passes as the  _ doneigad _ enters her small sanctuary. Through the curtains, dawn's first sparks of golden light fade, turning the dark room to a dim blue with splashes of sun against the far wall. It looks immaculate as ever, ornate furniture, excessively large bed, luxurious comforter and the finest weave of sheets, spacious closet left open to display a rainbow of soft, rich fabrics within. While used to such finery, Aurelie has always preferred camping in the wilds with nothing but a pair of old traveling boots, a sword at her hip and friends by her side. Alas.. everything must come to an end.

Beneath her bare feet, she feels the cushion of the woven rug over hardwood like nails upon her flesh, dragging sharp and cruel over the sensitive spots each time she takes a step. Behind her, she hears Síora's footsteps like soft pads, slow and measured against her own, quicker, sharper strides.

They sit beside each other on the bed, and the distance between them feels as an ocean, filled with roiling waves and salt and storms. Aurelie stares at the abstract designs cast upon the wall, ignoring her companion as the anxiety begins to build beneath her ribs. In her hands, she twists the white softness and lace of her nightgown and waits for the blaming and the excuses to start, for her to be told that she abandoned them all, her friends and that she made a mistake when she spared Constantin. That she should pay for her sins, for a dead god and the spilt blood of hundreds of natives and -

"Did Constantin give you those bruises upon your wrists?" the  _ doneigad _ asks solemnly, breaking the heavy silence in the darkening room.

Swiftly does Aurelie look up, meeting the familiar but distant eyes that, to her, now seem too cold and detached. Like a vague acquaintance looking upon her with passing acknowledgement rather than a cherished friend looking fondly upon another friend.

And the feelings of helplessness swell in the back of her throat, a thick knot of terror that she can not seem to swallow back down, because she had thought to see something more there and does not. "No," she whispers, "They're from the shackles when I was abducted."

Oddly enough, she makes no further comments.

"About Derdre," Síora says then, sounding awkward in the midst of her calm, glancing away with her faraway gaze as if in thought. "She will not back down once her mind is made, of this I know. Just as you will not, De Sardet. And she has decided that it is in the best interest of the  _ Yetch Fradi _ that she wears the crown of High King with the loss of Dunncas. It would be best, she may be able to erase any ill will and disdain of others infringing upon your wellbeing as a result of your... misdeeds."

It is not what Aurelie wants to hear. Bitterness meshes and mixes with the tightness of her chest, a thorn that is stabbing itself somewhere in the vicinity of her heart and burns through it, slow and agonizing. She recognizes the feeling as something she has felt a thousand times before. But never so potently or painfully.  _ Regret _ .

"And what about you?" the god asks furiously, fighting against her own tears. "Are you just going to allow her to do whatever she wants? We both know that she wishes to rid the continent of Constantin and I."

"I have spoken with her, and I did seek to change her mind at the very least in preventing an outbreak of war, what with most of the clans divided. But she was unmoved. And I am a native, a  _ doneigad _ of Tír Fradì first and foremost," Síora answers dutifully.

_ What about me? _ Aurelie wants to cry it to the skies, to scream and rage until she is heard.  _ You know me better than you know Derdre, have fought beside me longer than she. What of your loyalty and devotion to me? _

"So, you will not help us then," she whispers instead.

"I may not approve of your choice in  _ Anemhaid _ , nor who you so obviously keep in bed," the  _ doneigad _ replies softly, "But I do not fully approve of Derdre's words and ambitions either. Though I could not convince her to change her mind in the matter, I have spent time thinking upon it, and I..."

The first little spark of treacherous hope roars to life, and Aurelie is desperate to hear something - anything - that might help her and Constantin prevent more death, of this monstrous situation bearing down as a net upon her head, anything to snuff it out before it has a chance to grow and cultivate and root within her spirit. Already, she feels the abstract construct that is hope digging deep, lacing its way through her emotions and anchoring itself inside. Like symbiotic growth. Like a toxic parasite.

"I cannot - will not - go against Derdre directly. As I have pledged my life and clan to her," Síora continues. And, for the longest of moments, Aurelie feels it all contract and squeeze her insides - around her soul - until she wonders if it might burst her apart and kill her where she sits. 

"There is nothing I can say to change her mind about you and Constantin, that you do not wish for war. For I have already tried direct negotiation and compromise, and I would not dare deem it my place to further question her. However..."

_ However? _

"I might be able to help you. But you will need to make a choice about what it is you desire most."

Confused, tired, her mind is in a whirlwind tessellation dancing in circles from the very towering heights of hope - of possibility, of relief and escape from this hell bearing down upon her and dragging her down toward a future of endless bloodshed, where she must take the lives of her friends in order to free the continent - to the very depths of terrified despair, she can not make sense of those words, can not guess at what the  _ doneigad _ is speaking.

"Síora, I do not understand," she admits.

"If you remain here, you will be forced into war," her old friend says. "Yes, you will have all the luxury and power your heart desires. You may even bring the other clans to your side or purge the island of  _ renaigse _ as you promised. But Derdre would rather see us all burn than give the crown over to you. To  _ him _ . You must understand, Derdre is not alone in her sentiments. Many warriors,  _ máls _ and their clans feel the same way. Myself included. Constantin's mere presence is a blight upon Tír Fradì, he is sapping all that we hold dear of life and light. His shadow lingers on us even now. Ridding the continent of  _ renaigse _ will not satiate his bloodthirst.. he will hunger for more. Leave him, De Sardet. Run to Vasco and sail away far from here. Be free from his grasp."

Aurelie swallows sharply. "I know Constantin's mind and what he is capable of better than anyone. I know that he will do the right thing and I will not betray him nor leave his side. He needs me. Surely, you can understand that?"

_ If not out of love, then out of duty, _ Aurelie thinks, for she knows that Síora's one and only duty is to that of her people. She knows that the  _ doneigad _ harbours no love for Derdre or her methods and feels as though she has no choice but to wage war for the throne. Surely, she does not expect Aurelie to betray Constantin now, after all they have been through?

"If Constantin were anything other than a murdurer - than a godslayer - I would agree that one should not betray their heart," Síora answers, lips pursing tight and pine-green eyes narrowing. "But he betrayed you first, murdered my kinsmen, destroyed the life you had built in Tír Fradì. Even with good intentions, he slaughtered innocents remorselessly in both  _ Anemhaid _ and Hikmet. Such a monster is not worthy of loyalty or devotion."

"That is my choice to make." As if Aurelie didn't know all of that already. As if it has not haunted her nightmares since the very moment she placed her hand in his as a blinding white light cascaded over them. She feels it all. The endless nights of shocked grief, the feeling that a part of her has been torn away as all that she has known and loved slipped between her fingers like fine sand and is carried away by the sea. The deluge of tears that never ceases, the long days and nights beneath the newborn moon and sun, wondering if the pain that assails her body and spirit will ever yield enough for her to think of anything but her loss. The fury that comes after, like a rain of fire down from a sky of blood, that leaves her with the taste of copper on her tongue and the want of torn flesh beneath her nails and the feeling of screams and curses gaggling in the back of her throat until they spew forth.

All of that she knows intimately. All the reasons that she should hate her lover, her best friend, he who is always in her thoughts. All the reasons she should throw his love aside are listed one beside the other as titles of books she has read a thousand times, over and over, and knows word for word by heart. All the reasons she should abandon Constantin and build something new, free of his curse that haunts her still, even when she feels him close and breathes in his scent and wants nothing more than to kiss him upon his mouth and never let him go again.

But she loves him, and that has not changed through this entire everlasting nightmare.

"That is my choice to make," she repeats," and I have chosen to remain at his side, even if our future is uncertain."

Síora must have at least suspected she would receive this answer, that Aurelie will not put her own personal freedom and doubts about Constantin above her possible happiness with him and their unknowable future. Still, there is briefly a look of horrified betrayal in those green eyes, as though her old friend can not quite comprehend how the woman she used to know could choose to be tied to a madman - cutting herself off from any chance of a simple life - for the sake of love and resolute belief. 

Because Síora has never known love, not true love at least.

It is, in this moment, more pity that Aurelie feels than anger. That any woman should live all the long, endless years of her life without knowing the touch of a lover - trapped but “content” in the strangling bonds of duty.

She wonders if Síora has been happy for a single day since she left her beneath the gaping maw of  _ Anemhaid _ . If she has just learned to exist without that bubbling happiness of looking forward to new days. If she has never once rolled over and sighed, with the ache of loneliness and grief in her chest. If she has filled all those lost and vacant spaces where all that joy should have been with duty and revenge because there is nothing left of the companions she had grown fond of, of the woman she once admired and looked up to.

But Aurelie can not be that naive legate who went off on daring adventures to uncover lost truths alongside Síora. Not ever again. 

“I am sorry, my friend,” she says, her voice gentler. “I know you wish for things to return as they were but I am not that woman any longer. I have been reborn and in this new life I will never stray from Constantin’s side, will never give in to Derdre’s pressure and plots. The De Sardet of your memories died that day, among your kinsmen and buried in ash.”

“You were born from the  _ Sisaig cnameis _ and stolen by  _ laguid blau _ ,” Síora tells her then, sounding bitterly disappointed with her choice. “Despite your upbringing,  _ Yetch Fradi _ blood flows in your veins. I still see tiny glimmers of your past self peeking through the cracks and I have no doubt that you stubbornness came from us.”

Lifting her head, jutting out her chin in defiance, Aurelie refuses to acknowledge those words with tears. No matter how much they make her heart ache with sorrow.

“But, this is your choice, I will help you as I might,” the  _ doneigad _ adds. “I will do my best to convince Derdre to come up with a peaceful way to settle our discord. I doubt she will listen to me but I will try. I fear I cannot quell the rage of the clans who side with us, however. They blame Constantin for High King Dunncas’ death and demand blood.”

Though Síora is upset she chose Constantin once again, the woman says nothing about it, does not try to argue or change Aurelie’s mind, does not try to convince her that she is wrong and list all the reasons why. Deliberately, her face is drawn and crammed into a blank stare, eyes dark as they glance away.

“I have something that might help you,” she adds.

Aurelie holds back a gasp as Síora reaches into the leather pouch at her side and withdraws the familiar crown that she had given Dunncas the day he became High King. Its oaken branches are still smeared with black volcanic ash and a liquid Aurelie can only guess is blood. She stares up at Síora, wide-eyed and mouth agape. 

“I cannot take this, it belongs to  _ Voglaíg credaís _ . Glendan would be furious, as I am sure Derdre would be, if they knew you are giving this to me.” 

“I know,” the  _ doneigad _ whispers, “But I want to know the truth behind Dunncas’ death. Some things don’t add up and we must know how he died in order to move forward. The  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ can perform the ritual, but I want you to do it. You know what it requires and I want you to prove your abilities. Perform the  _ anatelas fer _ ritual and see through his eyes.”

“I-I will try,” is all she can promise as the  _ donegiad _ places the cold, wooden crown into her trembling hands. 

Almost abruptly, Síora stands, moving around the bed and towards the door on light feet. Aurelie has the feeling of being simultaneously helped and also ignored and dismissed. Like they have already cut ties between them, though Aurelie desperately hopes that is not the case. 

It hurts more than it should, to feel that chilly reception after only just starting to repair their lost friendship. Perhaps in time they will manage to bridge the gap between their lives and come to an understanding or find common ground…

But clearly, that will not be happening tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> anatelas fer ritual | Name of the ritual Mev performed during Greedfall that allowed her to see through Catasach's eyes from when he died.
> 
> Next up:  
> Vasco and Kurt grow restless in San Matteues as they discuss what to do about De Sardet...


	20. Suspirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt struggles to fight his demons and Vasco recalls how he first managed to court De Sardet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, Kurt's POV contains descriptions of violence, gore and depression.

**_༄_ XX. **

**_Three months ago…_ **

  
  


_ There were no words. His mouth was dry, lips parched, tongue swollen. _

_ It was as though he suddenly walked waist-deep in the languid heat of a dream - the atmosphere tangibly thick - his feet caught in invisible snares. The corners of his world burned black with the smoke of charred bodies and the sudden stillness of falling darkness; the figures moving in the dance of life and death around him were blurred beyond vision, the clash of blades and teeth and claw naught but a muted echo through the heavy pounding of his heart in his ears. _

_ All his eyes could see was the mire of crimson spreading across deep blue, soaking into the glistening stars and sullying their purity. Marked with the draining lifeblood of his student's limp body, tangled and fallen, twisted unnaturally. _

_ "Commander..." _

_ Scarlet hair spilled around that beloved face. Empty, dull eyes stared out at the fading light of the sky, the fading hope of the Congregation, of their kinship. _

_ And before he could stop himself, he looked downwards from the slacked features, to where the white blouse was torn where his sword had entered and now gore peeked out along with a tide of red. Blood. So much blood. It did not seem to stop, though its owner could not possibly have had more to give. As a small ocean, it spread and mixed with muck and dust, spreading and spreading until Kurt imagined that it would flood past his boots, rise up to his ankles, hot and fresh and bitter with iron. _

_ Even to save his own life, he could not have moved at that moment, frozen in time. No breath would be sucked through his lips to fill his lungs with the smell of sweat and putrid odor of eviscerated enemies and friends alike. No thoughts would come to his mind to steer him away from his horrified fascination with the image branded into his silver-blue orbs. _

_ A hand on his arm, pulling, but not hard enough to snap him out of his memories, to quell the urgent need to run back into Hikmets ruins and return to De Sardet's side.  _

_ Because she couldn't possibly be dead! _

_ "Kurt!" The name burst forth as a cry, broken and shocked. _

_ "Commander, please, we must set sail before Constantin's army reaches us!" _

_ He twisted until his wrist ached, until he was sure the iron grip on his arm would leave behind a marring of purple and black beneath his unarmored limb. _

_ "Stop this! Please, Kurt, listen to me!" _

_ The next image he saw was the honey-brown eyes in a familiar, stern face. Cabral, the admiral of the Nauts, stood before him, took him by the shoulder and shook him until his bones rattled and ached. "We need to retreat." _

_ No words. He nodded, but could summon no further will to move. The image of blood, the feeling of it sticky against his ankles, sliding thickly between his toes, would not cease. _

_ The red haze had settled on his mind. _

_ ༄ _

_ Even many days later, he could do naught but sit in shocked silence. The black had retreated from the edges of his vision, and instead of his eyes misted with stained stars, ruined by the stomping of Naut boots on the ships upper deck and the bashing of heavy waves against the vessel, blocking out all sound and sight from his frantically racing mind. _

_ Because Aurelie De Sardet was dead. _

And I killed her.

_ But that was wrong. His friend, his student, could not be dead. Yet each stuttered breath only confirmed the nightmare that was his miniscule reality. Every "Commander" spoken from unfamiliar lips was as a spear would be to his heart, piercing his brittle shield of ice. Cracking. Shattering. _

_ The days passed without notice. He couldn't remember what had happened after the battle, only that he was once again in San Matteus, in one of the Mother Cardinal's spare apartments, safe from the evil sight of Constantin d'Orsay. But even then, all he could do was sit on his balcony and stare, unstirred by the breeze caressing his cheek with smoothly familiar fingertips, unmoved by the heavy rain that battered down upon the earth and soaked him to the bone, leaving chills in its wake and warning in his heart. _

_ All he could see were those eyes losing their light. All he could feel was the overwhelming despair, the crushing defeat of his meager Coin Guard squad and their strength and pride. The spirit of his troops, the Nauts and Thélème ravaged beyond recovery. _

_ All he could think of was De Sardets last smile of greeting, the hand clapping on his shoulder, the joy at reunion after believing she had perished. That was gone, an ephemeral moment carried on the wind as a dandelion seed, lost in the arches of time as though it had never existed.  _ De Sardet is dead. Dead. Gone. Defiled and destroyed and desecrated in the copper of her own blood by my hand.

_ The image of her fragile, twisted limbs in tanned leather would not depart. The glimpse of vibrant red rent with his sword passing so easily through her chest would not leave his dreams. _

_ There was so much blood. So much it would never go away. _

_ And alone, in his apartment, Kurt sat. _

_ ༄ _

  
  


**_One year ago..._ **

_ Sometimes he wondered if they realized - mournful Vasco and the studious Aphra who arrived in San Matteus after barely escaping Hikmet with her life. He wondered if they noticed he would stare off into the distance beyond the constraints of his mortal realm whenever duty was not calling him to block all else from his cluttered, broken thoughts. _

_ He wondered if they could see past the feigned smile and the stern voice of their cold-hearted friend, hiding behind his need to take vengeance on Constantin along with the rest of them. _

_ He wondered... _

_ Because at night, he could not close his eyes for the fear of seeing the empty gaze of lost hope of the people around him, who stared accusingly up at him from his students slack face. _

_ Because the few hours he allowed himself the catharsis of sleep, it was inevitably blanketed by an ocean of jeering and the screams of the dying, heralding the arrival of that familiar wave of hot, wet, thick liquid swirling around his feet and upwards, until it swallowed him entirely, until he was drowning in spilled loyalty and broken dreams. _

_ Because the word "Commander" still made bile rise in the back of his throat. Still made his hands fist, white-knuckled and trembling. Still made him want to scream and rage and weep. _

_ Perhaps it was his punishment for siding against De Sardet so easily. _

_ ༄ _

_ Never before had Vasco encountered a puzzle or a riddle which he could not solve or piece together, which he could not unravel and dismantle and reassemble again forward and backward with his eyes tightly shut. Not mathematics, nor literature, nor the dimwitted societal circles De Sardet introduced him to that both intrigued and disgusted him. _

_ It was one of the reasons he enjoyed his life as a Naut captain so much. The burning need for a new challenge, for new discovery and new creation settled itself in his gut as ravenous hunger, a parched thirst that could not be sated by any amount of heady, rich wine or fresh, cold salt water. It consumed his restless spirit, embraced his rabid creativity to its breast and allowed him to be free. _

_ And then he met her. Immediately, she had kindled a lust in his heart (and his loins) for which he never experienced before. _

_ Her and her hair softer than any expensive fabric he had ever run over his fingertips, the colour of flame set in endless curls that spilled down her back. Her and her skin so fair, so white, yet dotted with what he could only name abominably precious freckles from cheek to cheek Oh, how he desired to sit and hold the perfection of her heart-shaped face between his calloused palms, feel the softness of red-flushed cheeks on his rough skin. He would draw her close, close enough to count the speckled bridge over her nose - close enough to name every hue of her blazing green eyes.  _

_ But there was a problem, one he had not anticipated. _

_ At first, Aurelie De Sardet had inspired Vasco with all her white-hot, divine spirit. _

_ For the life of him, he could not understand what he had done to make her so upset with him. He could not separate what it was that she wanted from him, what words might mollify her unexpected rage, what it was that he was doing incorrectly in her eyes. Never before had a woman befuddled him so - the Naut sailors and common maids were all too easy to woo and soothe with hushed words of flattery and gentle kisses to the knuckles. _

_ When he had used  _ that trick _ on Aurelie, she had given him a black eye that lasted an entire week. _

_ If only he knew what made her tick, how her gears functioned so that he might predict what would bring her the greatest pleasure, what might make her smile broadly at him, all sweetness and glory and affection. But she was not like a clock, with parts that all fit together in perfectly logical assimilation. Nor was she like mathematics, where numbers always added or subtracted or somehow interacted to provide a concrete answer. A predictable and right answer. _

_ There was nothing predictable about her. One moment, she would be playing an innocuous young maiden creating potions with Aphra in the afternoon light, and the next she would be hissing like an angry she-cat, baring her perfectly aligned white teeth in what Vasco supposed was meant to be a threatening gesture. _

_ Honestly, he found the display to be rather cute. Telling her that had earned him several broken toes and the insult "sleazy, misbegotten, bull-deaded son-of-a-goat-farmer" thrown in his face. Who knew that potion bag was so blasted heavy? Or that being insulted could sound so damned arousing? _

_ Similarly, any form of gift-giving had been swiftly rejected -  _ "What should I even do with a necklace this extravagant? I am the legate of the Congregation of Merchants, not a frilly, empty-headed peahen of court!" _ Flowers, too, had been thrown to the wayside; she had not stopped giving him strange looks for several weeks after  _ that _ incident, and it was not until later that he realized red tulips had a rather  _ strong  _ connotation, and by no means was he prepared to throw himself off a cliff to prove his undying love. Even Vasco would admit that he rather deserved being kicked by such a presumptuous gesture, especially to a woman he was not even officially courting. _

_ The captain had to be sure to read up carefully on the delicate language of bouquets, despite the odd looks he had received from some of Constantin's prestigious librarians, who could not understand for what underhanded purpose a wily creature like Vasco could possibly want to know about the meaning of flowers. _

_ The next time, he sent graceful orchids in a shade of vivid purple which he imagined would complement her hair rather attractively. He did not understand what she found so offensive about being labeled a "rare beauty" - as she certainly was rare and beautiful both at the same time - because, the next day, she had turned redder than a riple tomato and tried to hit him with the nearest fire poker. The woman should have been flattered! _

_ All in all, Aurelie did not make a lick of sense to the genius of Vasco's mind. It was like trying to predict the shapes of tomorrows clouds! Why she could not follow the same established laws of nature as every other feminine creature between Teer Fradee and the edge of the world, he did not know. All he knew was that it left him absolutely frustrated beyond belief.  _

_ She was the one puzzle he could not seem to put together in his head, the riddle he could nto answer without tangling his tongue and botching his honeyed words. _

_ It certainly did not help that she was constantly inviting him out on new quests, her shapely behind framed by the skin-tight leather leggings she favoured. Did she have any idea what such a sight did to him? The sheer amount of "bathroom breaks" Vasco had taken in the safety of trees left the captain blushing in mortification even when there was no one around to put two and two together. _

_ Well, two could play at that game. _

_ He deliberately forswore his shirt the day Aurelie visited his ship. His naked upper body blanked only with thick leather and the glisten of hot sweat over rippling muscle. With (an embarrassing amount) of forethought, he would every so often lean down and let his trousers pull taut around his perfectly shaped (as many women had whispered just within earshot) buttocks when he caught her head turned in his direction from the corners of his eyes. _

_ And whenever he walked by her, he always smirked and pressed a hand on the wall by her shoulder, leaning closer than propriety would dictate. "Has something attracted your attention, honourable legate?" _

_ Her answer was always "No". _

_ Teasing her only seemed to make her fiercer, seemed to stir up her irate nature and stoke her temper until it was almost tangible in the air. But then her face flushed that shade of cherry red, spreading across her cheeks and to the tips of her ears and down to her elegant, swanlike throat. And -  _ by the sea!  _ \- when she huffed up at him and yanked at her braided tresses, he could not help but feel as though his legs melted beneath him.  _

_ Eventually, the mystery that was Aurelie De Sardet consumed his world. _

_ Thoughts of departing Teer Fradee and setting sail slowed in the wake of the thousands of shades he could see in her jade eyes and the gentle waves of her thick curls and her slender back. He found himself seeing her everywhere, from her form ubiquitous, appearing in an essence of graceful movement, the cant of her shapely hips in every angle, the curve of her delightfully round cheekbone in every shadow. _

_ It took a humiliating amount of time for the genius to realize that he was  _ in love with her _. _

_And she still_ hated him _._

_ But he only ever teased her, only ever smirked and snarked and purred. Vulnerability never sat well with Vasco, and the desperation that was eating away at the cavity of his chest was most definitely vulnerable - the soft underbelly of his unbreakable armor of arrogance and urbanity. _

_ He started taking longer breaks from his ship. Though her mystery continued to vex him, it was painful to stand before her malice, to watch her lips purse in a stern frown whenever he smiled. Her displeasure was unbearable, and her rejection stung fiercely, worse than any concoction Aphra had ever rubbed into his scrapes and bruises. And then it twisted and jerked and it took all of Vasco's tremendous willpower not to flinch. _

_ Eventually, he decided to altogether forgo her company. It was for the best he did not continue to tantalize himself by putting himself so near the one thing he so desired but could neither understand nor possess. It was for the best if he drove her visage from his mind and returned his concentration to his duties as a Naut captain. _

_ So for one last time he stood before her, plastering a feigned smirk on his lips, giving a sultry, half-hooded look from beneath his thick, dark eyelashes. "Has something attracted your attention, honourable legate?" And his hands clenched in the leather of his apron, because he knew what was coming and it was going to feel like a blow to the gut, was going to rend him clean off his feet and steal the breath right out of his lungs. _

_ "Yes." _

_ He blinked dumbly. _

_ And then she  _ kissed _ him. Staggered, he breathed in the heady cinnamon burn and the scent of sweat and steel that molded itself to her being. Tasted her unique sweetness on his tongue, so different from the bitterness of unrequited affection. It was purely  _ her _ , and it was marvelous. _

_ And when they parted she looked so very pleased with herself. _

_ Vasco could not help but wonder what exactly he had done to deserve this and how exactly he could seek to bring about a repeat performance from this woman of whom he could make neither heads nor tails.  _

_ In the end, he settled with the knowledge that Aurelie was a puzzle he would never solve. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little filler chapter that I thought you all might like. We will get back into the thick of things but I was inspired to write about Kurt's experience during and after Hikmet, and a little twist on the game version of Vasco and De Sardet's relationship. My De Sardet is a very proud and headstrong woman, a noble through and through. Therefore when their romance first began, she was hostile to say the least. In the past men have only wanted her money and position as the Prince d'Orsay's niece and assumed Vasco was much the same. He wore her down eventually though and opened her heart up in ways she never thought possible. It's partly thanks to Vasco she later opened her heart up to Constantin and fell in love with him. Oh, the irony.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next up:
> 
> Vasco is torn between duty and his heart.


	21. Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if they wanted to, there is no going back.

**༄ XXI.**

This is surely a terrible idea. Of course, it is. She is the epitome of terrible ideas. 

They are at the edge of the sea on a little beach slightly outside Hikmet's walls, their laughter echoing through the mist and moonlight as they stumble away from the glow of city lights further up the bank. Aurelie has had far more to drink than is recommended and her head is foggy, the landscape spinning about her in wild circles.

At her side, her lover, equally as drunk, is laughing like the lunatic that he is as he wobbles unsteadily back and forth. Draining the last of his goblet of wine, he drops it into the sand and wraps both his arms around her, pulling her close to plant a sloppy kiss upon her cheek. "Ah, my goddess, my dear lovely De Sardet, it has been long since I felt so merry! What do you say to that dip in the sea you suggested earlier? Or is that too wild for a pure lady of the court?"

She should have never given him ideas. Naturally, he would remember something like that, even while drunk. Especially because it involved both of them. Together. Naked.

And he knows her well. Knows that she hears the challenge and tease in his voice. Knows that she will not back down, that it is not in her blood or bones to be cowed by shame. It is what he most loves about her, she suspects, that she does not roll over obediently and give in to the whims and fancies of society like some sort of slave. And that she has enough tooth and nail to push back against his battery of words and meet his bladed tongue blow for blow in response.

So, laughing, she agrees. Reaching out, she yanks open his pants first, watching as his brows raise over his glowing, pale eyes. "What? It feels like it has been centuries since I had the pleasure of seeing you bare. Help me along, you useless lout."

"Whatever my lady demands," he agrees with that cheeky grin that never fails to get him access to her knickers. Still a little wobbly on his feet, he manages to peel his tunic off over his head and then work on the shirt beneath while she peels his leggings down, making him unsteadily stand on one foot and then the other, while she removes the fabric along with his sand encrusted boots. Unceremoniously, it is all shoved aside just as he manages to untangle himself from his shirt and abandons it in the grainy crystals.

"Hmm, your malichor scars are healing," she comments lightly. The dark and violent starbursts that are drawn into his pale skin have slightly faded, their thick tendrils no longer as vivid.

He blinks down at her, dazed for a long moment as his hand creeps up to feel about his scarred chest, like he is as surprised as she is. "I..yes. I thought it would be permanent but for some reason they fade a little more whenever we are together.."

"Perhaps my touch heals you, my love.."

His cheeks flare, a lush rosy hue to compliment his pallor. "That is a possibility.."

"Let's test the theory then," she teases, stepping away, not at all subtle in the way her eyes scrape up and down his body. Giggling, she lets the fabric of her outer gown fall away, pulling her arms from the embroidered sleeves. The fabric falls to her waist and she has to wiggle and struggle to peel it away without tripping over her own feet. Underneath, she wears nothing but a thin shift which does nothing to hide the swells of her breasts or the triangle of scarlet curls between her thighs from his wide, glistening eyes.

Grasping at the hem of the thin fabric, she pulls it up over her head and sighs as the cool night air washes over her bare skin as invisible lovers hands. "Well, my dear prince, we do not have all night.."

Looking down at the twitch of his cock, she tries (and fails) to stifle her laughter. Even without his verbal reply - he seems to be struggling to find words for the moment - it is obvious what his answer is. And, while it is tempting to take him in hand, she does not want to spoil him overmuch so soon into this little game.

Let him work a little harder for her favor tonight.

Turning, she arches to show off her rump and the flex of her thighs and calves, stretching her arms overhead. "Well, my love? I do not hear the sweet honeyed words of a man with the desire to be healed by a woman's body."

"My words are never honeyed," he answers, stepping closer, one foot at a time. Until his hands are hovering near but do not touch. "What would you have me say? Should I write poetry of your softness, the milky pallor of your skin, the curve of your delightful ass? If you turn, perhaps I will pay homage to the roundness of your breasts, how perfectly they rest in my palms, and how you squeal whenever I swipe across your nipples with my tongue.."

"Resist, my prince," she teases, though breathlessly, for his words certainly have her squeezing her thighs tight about the sudden rush of heat between them. "For this night you are to woo me, not seduce me."

"Woo you, hm?" She finally feels his hands upon her hips from behind, sliding so gently over the curve of her waist but no higher than her ribs, and then back down to her hips, but not low enough for his fingers to touch any part of her buttocks nor brush near her groin.

And then he lifts her, as though she weighs nothing at all. Shrieking with laughter, she curls in upon herself in his arms, delighting in the strength of his muscles against her, the flex of his arms and the ripple of his chest. With an undignified cry of merriment, he swings her around and throws her out into the water with a splash. 

Gasping as she surfaces, she glances up through watery eyes to see his face open and sweet with laughter. No veils between his joy and the world, between his true being and her eyes. This has always been her favourite Constantin. The one who is wild and free, who does not feel the need to hide beneath a shroud of vicious words and dark scowls, to drive away any and all who might do harm to this beautiful creature hiding underneath.

With a leap, he joins her in the water, ungraceful and long-limbed, splashing water over her head again. Together, they swim circles about one another, using their cupped hands to send little glittering handfuls of water flying through the moonlight, their voices echoing through the intimacy of the night.

_ This _ . She has missed this so.

So easily, he brings it all back. With the way he finally captures her naked form and pulls her near, smothering her laughter with quick, worshipful kisses.

"Come," she says, pulling away with a gasp. "The night is yet young and long are the hours until dawn. Let us play some more in the water."

"Whatever you want,  _ minundhanem _ ," he answers. "Whatever you want."

In her heart, she knows exactly what she wants. She wants nothing more than him. Like this. Beautiful and wild and utterly hers. The side of him that no one else but she will ever get to witness, will ever get to savor.

And she will have him again. If she asked, he would swear himself to her without hesitation, without so much as a droplet of doubt. Right now, while they are both merry with intoxication, naked and prancing about like young lovers in the night, she could call him a lovely, fey thing and claim him as her own.

༄

Languidly, they are splayed out in the grass, both as naked as the day they'd been born, shamelessly bare and completely comfortable in eachothers arms. A long night of love-play beneath the shimmer of stars and while coated in the gleaming moon, and then another joining as the light devoured the horizon, lazy and slow and consuming as they devoured one another's moans and cries, has them both exhausted and sweat-slick.

But, now, as he lounges in the warm brushes of sunlight that tease their way into the small clearing, as he listens to the sound of waves crashing against the nearby beach and feels his lovers breath steady against his throat, Constantin thinks he has not been so at peace since...

Well, he is not certain that he has ever felt this at peace.

There have been long years in his youth when he had been wild and desperately sought his freedom from one end of the Congregation to the other. Even one stretch of months where he had failed to return home, making himself welcome in many of the Sérène taverns amongst the drunken peasants and whores.

Those few months were the closest he can recall to this feeling. No ever-present knocking in the back of his mind, responsibilities demanding, family calling for obedience or oaths begging for blood. The voices in the back of his mind are silent.

And then, he speaks, breaking what has been a night of speechless mating. No need has there been for words between him and his lover after a point, for they had felt twined together in body and in spirit, each perfectly content to read the longing and desire of the other from their eyes and their body language. Even as they simply lay together in the golden glow between bouts of bliss, he has kept his lips sealed and his voice silenced.

Unfortunately, as he has learned over his years of frustration and disappointment, all good things must come to an end. If he has a cycle, he would have fallen into this wordless harmony and heavy bliss, never to crawl his way back out again, but such is not the way of the world. Even he knows that. Know's it too well.

"There is something obviously on your mind,  _ minundhanem _ . What is it?" she asks him, sitting up to peer down at his face, draping herself across his chest, pressing her bare breasts against his scarred skin. Her fingertips trace one of the many dark bruises left by the malichor, following the dip and curve of the ragged flesh.

She has marks of her own, though only one she was born with. A rough patch of greenish-brown roots etched forever into the white skin below her right ear. Last night, he had traced the lines of a scar between her breasts with his lips, where she had been run through by Kurt's blade. It is such a tiny thing now, a mere scrape that blooms upon her chest, pink and barely there. For a fatal wound, the sight of it never fails to fascinate him with how quickly it has been healing or awaken his anger towards her former friends for delivering the blow.

Few other scars does she bear compared to his war-torn form. The contrast to the rough patches on his own body leaves him shivering. Had they not spent themselves entirely not but an hour earlier, he wonders that he might roll her over and make love to her again.

But, they really should speak.

"I've been thinking about our future together," he says quietly, stroking his fingers up the curve of her waist and back down to tease her hipbone. "I don't want to keep up this facade any longer..."

  
  


He does not have to explain more than that. Not really. The moment he took his hand in hers before  _ En on mil frichtimen _ , the moment she caught the glisten of his eyes as light washed over them, she must have always known that he would claim her but for his own desires and naught else. No pawn is he, not of his own family nor of Tír Fradì itself. Nor does he really understand why he offered his power to her except that it had felt right in the wake of their world shattering, and his spirit sung in that moment. 

Above all else, that is what he has always remembered whenever he could be free outside obligation. It is what always led him back to her, where he felt free. Being with her is like living in the wild heart of this island; the wide-open plains of the world that extends ever on, the forests untouched by the feet of travelers, the quiet places that have never known the sound of voices speaking in tongues.

It draws him to her. Something that even before stepping foot on Tír Fradì, it has never done. Not even his past paramours, for all their beauty, had inspired this sort of drive, for he had only lusted after their beauty and the fleeting comfort they had offered.

His thoughts are always consumed by her. By her scarlet curls spilling down the graceful curve of her spine and resting in waves upon her shoulders, dipping into the grooves of her clavicles and teasingly drawing his gaze downwards. By her eyes, the deep and lush jade green of an untouched meadow, of the emeralds set in his mother's jewelry, but so much more alive than the dead glitter of jewels. By her laughter as the sweet tolling of high bells, a sound of joy that never fails to leave his heart raised in spirit, an echoing grin curving the usually dour bow of his lips.

He loves her. Aurelie De Sardet, the child his father sought to control who now outshines all the stars in the night sky. This, he does not doubt.

More often of late, they kept up the appearance of close friends for the sake of maintaining discretion. In the beginning, they lived a lie of cousins and never got too close, they were always too fearful of the repercussions were they to give in to their feelings. That was back when Constantin's heart had been an aching, raw and festering wound in his chest - back when his relationship with his mother and father was strained and the duties of being an heir were exerting pressure on his morale and he had considered that perhaps it would not be so terrible a fate to lie down beside Aurelie and rest forever - she had been a balm upon his very soul.

A kind smile. A soothing touch. Her brightness never failed to drive away the creeping despair even as the Malichor devoured him inside out. Her friendly words of comfort had lifted him out of the abyss over which he had been hanging. And, at first, it had been enough.

At first.

Until he realized he could not imagine what life would be like without her. Until the next time she embarked on another adventure outside New Sérenè and left him bereft and lonely in her wake, scrambling to find purchase on the slippery slopes of his mind. Until he realized that he sat by the window of his palace and looked down upon the street, his eyes searching in vain for the vibrant red of her hair, helplessly hoping that she would return soon. Until he saw her again and felt such utter and indescribable relief and bliss at her answering smile that it frightened him.

Until he realized that she fit with him in a way too intimate to really understand. That she filled a void in his heart that he had never realized had been empty. That the places where he and Aurelie had ever been in contention were now soothed.

If he hadn't known better than to think such a sacrilegious thought, he would have said that she was his soulmate.

And he knew she felt it,  _ feels _ it, too.

Wavering around one another, constantly pulled towards each other even as they struggled to drift away, the gravity of their attraction could not be denied. They have known each other all their lives, but his tender fondness has evolved into something smoldering and hot screaming and trapped within his core, clawing and fighting to escape. And her eyes would look into his, captured and held steady in unwavering connection, and he could see how her pupils dilated and her breathing hitched and the stain of blood beneath her pale skin rose upon her cheeks and traveled down her neck.

He knew then that he wanted to be with her. He had wanted to trap her in a golden cage as if she were a bird. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He had wanted to have children with her.

She is the gateway to all that he had thought lost when sanity abandoned him.

Since then whispered confessions and poetry echoed through the darkened rooms and corners of their home in Hikmet. Out of sight they stole kisses in the garden and their chambers. 

Almost every night they give into their passion and primal need to be consumed by one another. 

But still, _it_ _isn't_ _enough_. 

Without marriage, he does not dare to be caught with her in a compromising situation in public, for it would bring them both to ruin. Their reign as gods has only just begun and relations with the natives and Thélème forces them to only be intimate in private. Yet, he longs to be able to grasp her hand in full view, to be as lovers hand-in-hand greeting  _ Yetch Fradì màls _ and wandering the markets with glowing smiles, to be able to kiss her knuckles in affection and show everyone how much he adores her. 

He wants to see her swollen with his child, her belly growing round until he can press his ear against it and listen to his unborn offspring, until he can cradle the swelling in his hands and press kisses to her belly-button until she giggles beneath his affection. He wants to see her smiling with a child in arms, her face radiant in a way that none have ever been, their happiness a tangible presence in the air as they celebrate the birth of their greatest creation together.

He wants to  _ marry _ her. He wants to be her husband in the eyes of the people.

"Marry me Aurelie," Constantin asks breathlessly, "We are where we are supposed to be. Where we go next matters not because I will remain wherever you are. Should the clans rebel, Thélème send their armies or the very continent split apart.. I want us to face it together."

It is a miraculous feat indeed to raise a blush upon Aurelie's cheeks, but flush she does, though it is accompanied by a smile upon her kiss-darkened lips even as she glances away shyly from her lover's steadfast gaze. "I love you Constantin and I desire nothing more than to spend this lonely eternity with you... but what if it is too soon? Derdre is searching for our weakness so that she may dispose of us. What if word of our marriage reached your father's ears? If our betrayal has not already set him off, marriage surely will."

_ My father _ ... Constantin cannot deny her words. Long has he wished to abandon any semblance of life controlled by the man. He would gladly hang his father, his bloodline and his status as heir for her. He has no desire to return to those days, even if it is possible. The damn etiquette and the ridiculous court dancing and all the rest of the senseless drivel that was all pieced and shoved and crushed together to form a mockery way of life called "polite society". 

He had hated it from the very moment his mother had first forced him to dress in finery and be toted about like a shiny bauble for inspection. It had been the bane of his life. There had been a time when he had even contemplated disappearing entirely, going nameless and faceless and never calling the name d'Orsay his own.

But... 

No matter how senselessly cruel he became in his boredom and his madness, no matter how unhinged his mind became as he was sucked under by all the death and the hatred, no matter how awful he would lash out at Aurelie growing up, she has always been at his back. He would gladly spurn the whole Congregation of Merchants for her. 

"Derdre is powerless against us and I no longer care about what father thinks of me," he argues, voice straining in his vehemence. "I would rather be ousted from my father's throne and left forgotten but married and happy with you than remain heir sitting on my lonely throne without your comfort and light. Tír Fradì is ours and he will not step one foot upon its soil."

"Constantin..."

" _ Please _ grant me this wish," he begs her then, leaning down to kiss her swollen lips, feeling the softness of her body against the hard planes of his own. "Please, let me at least try."

_ Give me this chance at happiness. _

He does not have to say more. She has heard his deepest thoughts before, knows him inside and out. She has heard of his daydreams spoken in the hazy minutes of the afterglow in the silver dappling of sunlight. And he knows that she feels the same desire, that she wants to be with him as more than a figurehead. 

In her shifting gaze he can see the inner conflict, the battle between her desire to reach out and grasp that which they both long for and the urge to try and protect him from the inevitable threat and displeasure of his family, from the potential backlash from the Congregation. Like a pendulum does her face sway back and forth between wistful longing and determination and hidden sorrow.

And he kisses her again, pressing all his passion and need into the air he breathes against the roof of her mouth, into the stroke of his tongue tracing her sweet lips and the heady gasp that rises up from deep in his chest. Telling her - showing her - that he needs her. That he will do anything for her. That he will face the wrath of all the factions for her.

That he  _ loves _ her.

When he pulls away, they are both short on breath and fire once again burns in their loins. But he does not move to trace his lips down the tempting arch of her throat nor roll his hips down into the cradle of her body, instead, he peers into her eyes.

" _ Please _ ," he very nearly pleads. "Marry me, Aurelie De Sardet, my goddess of Tír Fradì. Make me the happiest man alive. Bring me joy for the rest of my days."

Unable to hold back any longer, she presses a kiss to his mouth, a mere chaste brush of skin to skin. And he can see in her eyes that he has won.

"Yes," she yields then, her soft palms cradling his jaw. "Yes, I will marry you, Constantin d'Orsay. Whatever comes, we shall face it together."

His joy is both fierce and terrible. He wants to raise his head to the sky and roar out his victory in defiance of all that has kept them apart. Ane he wants to lift her from their grassy nest and hold her against his chest and swing her around the clearing until she dissolves into helpless laughter. For all that his body is aflame, the jittery need to move that trembles through his limbs has nothing to do with coitus and everything to do with elation.

Instead, he leans closer, sharing their breath. Their noses brush gently. "Yes?"

"Yes," she breathes against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! These last two months have been quite tough for me and I've found little time to write. However my schedule has cleared up now and we'll be back to our regular scheduled weekly/bi-weekly updates! Your encouragement and comments are what inspire me to write even when I feel like doing anything but. So thank your support! If you want to chat or hear announcements on the series then check me out on Tumblr! My user is key-of-bones
> 
> Next up:
> 
> Vasco receives a letter that changes everything.


	22. Figment Of My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one of Vasco's worst fears comes true.

**༄ XXIII.**

It is as he crosses the city, huddling beneath his oilskin cloak and trying to ignore the feeling of unpleasant dampness between his aching toes, that the messenger stops him with hurried, frantic calls of "Admiral! Admiral Vasco!" that he dearly wishes he could ignore.

Ever playing at a pleasant disposition and kindly heart, he offers the man a small smile as he is approached, even though he dearly wishes he could snarl his frustration with the cold, wet weather in the man's face and ride off without giving him the time of day. "What can I do for you?"

Nervousness is in every line of the man's body, which seems to grow ever the more as Vasco grits his teeth in annoyance. Compared to Aurelie's soft expressions of neutrality, his eyes are a burning amber fire behind glass, and his smile carries a predatory sharpness that hers has never bore. The poor, trembling man anxiously stares at his mud-encrusted boots but gets to the point despite his obvious discomfort.

"I carry two missives for admiral Cabral and the Mother Cardinal from the heathen gods in Hikmet," the messenger says. The two letters are transferred swiftly to avoid dampening them in the rain.

"I can carry them the rest of the way." Because, of course, messengers can run from one end of Teer Fradee to the other as long as they stayed on the main roads and traveled between the larger villages and towns. Try to get them to deliver letters to the middle of a massive city such as San Matteus, and they will balk at performing their duty.

Vasco sighs and pushes away the cynicism and irritation. Instead, he wonders what might be in the letters. Spies have been communicating directly with the Mother Cardinal for some time, mostly to do with the events taking place within Hikmet. So far, she has not been particularly successful at finding Constantin and De Sardet's weaknesses, but the movement of clans to the Bridge Alliance's former capital is concerning. Reports say that hundreds are migrating towards the city. To overthrow the false new god Constantin or join him in his campaign, the spies did not say.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" he quietly asks.

"No, admiral!" The messenger bows deeply - Vasco is a bit surprised at the level of respect, for he knows that the Nauts were not well-received within the walls of this city - and slips away into the din of raindrops in growing puddles between the uneven surface of the silver-sheened cobblestones. Distractedly, Vasco watches him go.

And he wonders if, perhaps, something has changed. Even the tiniest bit. For the longest time, De Sardet's group of renowned companions were shunned as traitors and heathens. Now that they have become a somewhat common sight, at least amongst the normal folk who traverse the streets on their daily routes to their jobs or man the carts and stands in the marketplace, Vasco passing through the street in the rain barely turns a single head. They might glance at him and take note, but the ever-present whispers and staring has vanished, lost in the mist rising from the street as the rain hits the ground and shatters.

He wonders if De Sardet herself, who is much more noticeably strange with her mess scarlet curls and  _ on ol menawi _ mark would still turn heads. He wonders why the sudden lack of sideways glances and vicious, sibilant hisses behind cupped hands makes him feel strange. Turning to glance over his shoulder, he expects to see someone looking back with narrowed, suspicious eyes. But no one pays him any mind.

_ Maybe it is just the rain _ , he thinks. It does rather make it hard to see clearly through all the gloom.

Pushing it from his mind, he continues on his trek through the bustling San Matteus streets, splashing through puddles in his path. He has a little ways until he reaches the palace and Vasco has other things to occupy his mind.

  
  


༄

  
  


After arriving at the palace, he delivers the two letters to Cabral and the Mother Cardinal, who are chatting within the checkered throne room and while he thinks to leave, Cabral stops him. 

"Vasco you need to read this."

Lips pursed in a tight frown, the admiral's tattooed face reveals not even the slightest glimmer of emotion as she hands the open letter over to Vasco. 

The loss of De Sardet to Constantin's vile schemes has always been a sore spot for Vasco. But even so, his friends could not understand the true depth of his hatred, because he has never spoken truthfully of it - of  _ her _ \- his one. Not even to Kurt.

Vasco and Aphra are both aware of his jealousy over his former lover and of his blistering hatred towards Constantin d'Orsay; it is not as if the amber-eyed admiral has tried to hide the bitter, resentful feelings from his companions. In his darkest hours, he would spit and rave and pace like a caged animal, ranting to Kurt's blank face and empty eyes until he ran out of complaints to petition and words to shout and glasses to smash against the stone walls.

They believe it obsessive and disturbing, they they know that Vasco is more than slightly senile of late, and none of them question his behaviour. Or perhaps none of them dare. Vasco can not blame them for that, unsure himself whether any defense of Constantin within earshot would have triggered a homicidal reaction.

Little does he know that it’s about to get much, much worse.

༄

_ Dear admiral Cabral of the Naut fleet, _

_ We hereby invite you to the joyous occasion that is Constantin d'Orsay and Aurelie De Sardet's marriage ceremony. It is our wish to soothe any tensions that have blossomed between the Nauts and new gods by inviting you to attend our peaceful celebration. We hope that with this we can reach an understanding and cause no further deaths between our peoples. If you reject our offer then we will have no choice but to declare you as enemies of Tír Fradì and use force to rid you of our shores.  _

_ For the good of your people and ours, please attend our ceremony where we can write up an agreement that benefits both of us.  _

_ This is your one chance at peace, there will be no others. _

_ Signed, _

_ Constantin d'Orsay  _

_ Former Heir of House d'Orsay, God of Tír Fradì and the Yetch Fradì _

_ Aurelie De Sardet _

_ Former Legate of the Congregation of Merchants, God of Tír Fradì and the Yetch Fradì _

༄

He is not prepared for the betrayal he feels. It is as though she who he knows and is meant to be with has rejected every part of him as unworthy, unsuitable, has thrown his offering - his offering of everything he is and has been - back in his face with a sneer and lays with filth to spite him and his possessiveness.

Bile makes its presence known in the back of his taut throat, the acidic bite sinking and settling on his palate. The sudden and nearbly uncontrollabke urge to murder someone has nearly brought his fingers around Cabral's throat, or better yet the Mother Cardinal who stands to the side in stony silence. As if his heart would not hurt so nearly as much if he could just asphyxiate someone with his bare hands - preferably the man who has gone and brainwashed and married the other half of his soul - and maybe that searing-hot agony that is building layer by layer in his deepest hidden core will go away and leave him be.

Nothing has ever awoken such a violent urge for revenge in his breast as the knowledge of Constantin not only binding her mind to him, but soul as well. 

"Are we to accept this…  _ invitation _ ?," he asks aloud, drawing the eyes of the two women. “There is no possible reason De Sardet would go along with these plans. They must have done something unspeakable to her.. Yet this may be the chance we’ve been looking for to rescue her..”

The Mother Cardinal scowls in his direction as though offended that he dares to speak. Admiral Cabral’s amber eyes peirce him down to the bone, further even, with sorrow and steely resolve. 

"It has long been decided that Aurelie De Sardet is a lost cause," the Mother Cardinal replies, darkened eyes looking about the grand throne room. "Constantin holds too tight a grip on her. Besides, we do not have the manpower to mount a rescue attempt. In all likelihood this invitation is Constantin dangling nothing but empty promises before our eyes, hoping to lure us into a trap."

“But surely -”

“We will do nothing,” she interrupts. “That is final.”

It is now that admiral Cabral speaks, and her words make Vasco’s teeth draw blood from his lips in an effort not to scream at his fellow Naut. “The only decision you have made that I agree with. The Nauts nor Thélème can afford to waste our remaining forces rescuing a likely traitor.”

There is a heartbeat of silence. Two. And then like a dark avenger, Vasco towers over them, glorious in his fury. Eyes like emerald stars blazing with light, he steps forward, his hands twitching into taut fists, lust for blood in his eyes. “How dare you? Aurelie helped both the Nauts and Thélème more than anyone! You owe her!”

“Why should I sacrifice my priests and knights for a woman who reportedly spends all her time in the bed of the enemy? For the woman who left us all to suffer and die at the hands of that evil tyrant Constantin!” The Mother Cardinal roars.

“You filthy rat!” It takes one of the guards and Cabral to hold back Vasco from throttling the foolhardy woman. 

“I will not take back my words,” she proclaims, voice steady, eyes bleeding with the purest scorn Vasco has ever seen. “I hope she suffers!”

  
So enraged is he, Vasco can not bear to even speak. Even as the Mother Cardinal lifts her velvet skirts and storms out of the throne room with guards filing in behind her.

In his hand lay the crumpled invitation. The words within haunting his thoughts. The chill that has taken up residence in Vasco's heart spreads like a toxin through his veins until he shivers despite the warmth of the room and glow of candlelight against his flesh.

"Something must be done."

Eyes preciscely the hue of an amber sunrise stare back at him. They darken with each passing moment as the sun's rays begin to hide beyond the door, as if a mirror reflects the heavenly dome through the woman before him. Her emotionless eyes are set in a face curved with intricate tattoos which almost look to be writhing upon her cheeks.

“Surely you are not going to disobey the Mother Cardinal..”

Dark eyes. Judging eyes. They watch with calculation, with ice cold shields distorting the horror deeply hidden beyond. Lying to his face. Pretending to care.

“The Mother Cardinal goes too far. You know as well as I do that she cannot control the Nauts. You are the sole leader, it is your decision whether we should go or not. I am not saying that we should attend the event just to rescue Aurelie.. We should also see if the possibility of a peaceful solution between our factions is real. We owe it to those we’ve lost.”

“What would you have me do? You know as well as I that we do not have ships nor men to spare. Not that any would be willing to go at any rate.”

“Then I will go. By myself, if need be and in secret. The Mother Cardinal will know nothing.” 

Admiral Cabral gazes upon him with incisive directness. “This is a foolhardy decision. Are you certain you wish to cross enemy lies for the sake of a woman who may or may not love you?”

“I am,” he murmurs. “I have never been so sure of something in all my life.”

There is a slow, diffident nod, uncharacteristic of the self-assured Naut. “I will permit this.” She pauses, lips pursing tightly, brows furrowing in concern for her most favoured co-admiral. “Please be careful and discrete. Take Aphra and Kurt with you, if they are willing.”

“You will not regret this..”

“I already do.”

  
  


༄

  
  


Too many evenings are spent this way.

Before the fire, Vasco perches upon a thickly cushioned armchair, perfectly still and quiet. The heat forms golden-red waves that dance in the fireplace and burst across his face, their glowing shadows flickering over the picture he cradles so gently within his palm. The picture to which his eyes are riveting so helplessly.

He wonders if she thinks of him at all. If she even misses him. 

_ If she feels as he still does…. _

So beautiful she is before him, her scarlet curls piled into an elegant coiffure atop her head with a smile out-shining the stars for its whiteness and purity. And her eyes, a mixture of the newness of spring and evergreen of winter, burns out at him, piercing and unblinking, eternally captured within their shimmer of delight and adoration. So glorious but bringing so much sadness.

He can almost imagine running his fingers over her cheek and reaching up to pull her hair free of its bonds to flow loose in the ocean air.

Even so far apart, with an island and a lie and a heathen god between them, Vasco can swear he falls in love with her more and more each day.

But all he has of her is this locket. The heavy golden trinket - one of his earliest and clumsiest but by far most beloved works, a treasure forged through his own blistering sweat and tears of utter frustration - holds her portrait. Were it not for the tiny painting, done with remarkable detail and skill to capture perfectly her visage in vivid colour and graceful lines, he is afraid he might have forgotten her face beneath the weight of tragic fate and seething vengeance.

He wears it against his heart. Every day. To bed. To sail. To death, should it strike him down.

Licking his suddenly dry lips and trying to ignore the stubborn sting of his eyes, Vasco releases a sigh, still enraptured with her image.

More than anything… he  _ misses _ her.

Feels a shroud of loneliness falling over his pathetic life and blocking out any comfort and contentment there is yet to embrace. It is not that he stands alone physically. Aphra haunts his every shadow and Kurt remains as fiercely, steadfastly loyal as ever. But it is not the same. Not the same sort of companionship and trust which had rested between him and Aurelie.

What he has with Kurt is between brothers. His chosen family, full of devotion and buried fondness, but still a certain sort of distance. A coldness of embrace and calculating gleam of the eyes. What he has with Aphra is a little different, that of quiet understanding, mutual hatred and some measure of trust.

But he longs. Longs terribly for someone to sleep beside him. To kiss his lips softly in the twilight. To be his confidant in the dark when he reaches his most vulnerable. Not two albeit, close friends.

All those things she had been for him. But he had left her behind,  _ fool that he was. _

Alone. He is alone. And even he, the ruthless second in command of the Nauts and heartless manipulator, is no less of a soul than any kind-hearted gentleman or sweet-cheeked lady. No less needy, no less wistful.

That is how it has been since the day he left Aurelie behind.

At least, until a shadow flickers across his eyes and disrupts the vision. Reflexively, he snaps shut the locket and stuffs it beneath his shirt, hiding it away from prying eyes. There are very few people he will trust with knowledge of the weakest link in his armor.

Glancing upward, a part of him is disgustingly grateful that it is Kurt who infringes upon his privacy. The Coin Guard commander and kind friend would not willingly use any knowledge of this sort against him. Not even to save his own life.

"Kurt, is there something you need?"

Kurt gives him a knowing look, but thankfully does not immediately bring up the subject that hangs heavily between them, filling the air and bricking up a wall of miscommunication. Instead, the dark-haired man grins wryly. "I merely found myself in a spot of boredom and decided to seek out my favourite Naut. Is that a crime?"

Without waiting for an answer, the commander sits down in the adjacent chair, relaxing back into the stuffing with a bone-weary sigh. Were one unfamiliar with the mannerisms of the man, they might believe such a blatant lie because of the relaxed nature of the body and the steadfast and languid stare of the eyes, but Vasco knows better. He knows all too well what exactly is eating at his mind.

_ Probably the same that is haunting the corners of mine own. _

_ Her. _

Vasco's lover. Kurt's best friend. In some ways, the pair of friends are all too similar and yet so intrinsically different.

But Vasco knows... knows that his friend feels this cursed weight as well. The loneliness lingering as a deadly heaviness over the spirit, suffocating and dampening, weakening and tormenting. Just as Vasco longs for the companionship of his lover, Kurt longs terribly for his favourite student.

Kurt is the first to break their silence. "You miss her."

It stings, like dirt in an open wound. Stiffening, his eyes flash towards the man, a sneer twisting at his lips. 

"I do not see what it should matter to you, commander."

It hurts. And even before the eyes of Kurt, the last thing he wishes to do is cry.

"I was just -"

"I do not care what you intend. If all you came here to do is bother me, you should leave."

_ Leave me alone to suffer in silence. Leave me to my loneliness and go drown in your own. Please, do not make the truth any more real. _

But at his acerbic manner, Kurt's eyes only gentle further with softness. Until they are liquid with empathy, the kind of understanding that sends a heart-wrenching jolt through Vasco's chest. Such is the power of those eyes and that sad, crooked little smile in the flickering light of the fireplace. Sucking him in and brushing away the resentment.

This man is staring straight through him. Knows him so well that Vasco can not hope to hide away from the piercing eyes... like  _ hers _ ...

So agonizingly familiar.

He understands. Damn him.

Because despite the pain, there is deep-seated pleasure. The feelings Vasco craves like a drunkard craves fine wine, the bond of companionship that he misses, seems to abruptly snap into place, an electrical jolt through his spine. Sending the admirals heart pounding.

"I miss De Sardet as well."

The feeling of compassion washes through his veins, poisonous in its terrible lightness. Tearing through the loneliness. The heavy glow of camaraderie instead settles over them, blanketing their private little world. Almost against his will, Vasco releases a small, bitter smile.

"No one likes to be forcibly parted from their loved ones."

"I see... Cabral told me of what happened in the throne room today. Heard you almost strangled the Mother Cardinal."

Startled, Vasco meets his gaze. "She deserved it for speaking ill of Aurelie. You know that she would not willingly marry Constantin."

"The De Sardet you know has changed since she attained godhood," he remarks coolly, trying to draw away from the sudden, dangerous heat. "Her heart may have changed as well."

_ The thought of her turning away... the thought of pale, scarred arms delicately holding her, fingers that are not  _ his _ tracing her curves... _

_ \- haunts him at night in the dark when silence becomes too much. When there is no breath in his ear to quell the rising surge of anger. _

Does she still even love him? Or is Constantin's corruption buried deeper than he thought?

If only Kurt could understand the swirling, raging sea of molten despair and wistfulness held at bay with a trembling gate of hatred and terror. The lust for revenge was heavy in the veins of Vasco, but the damnable invitation has only made it grow  _ stronger _ . So badly, he wants to make that golden haired prince pay for what he has done. It is like a disease, burning through his veins in toxic black and sickly green, spreading out from his tainted core.

And at the same time, there is deep-seated longing.

"I don't care. I will free her from Constantin's bonds," he whispers, "Admiral Cabral has given me permission to take a small party to the wedding in secret."

Can he kill Constantin by himself? Doubt pulses at his center.

"I want to help," Kurt immediately replies, "I'm sure Aphra would be more than willing to lend aid as well."

He glances again at his friend, who is smiling oh-so-sadly and averting his silver-blue eyes, staring into the flames. Reflecting.

"Are you certain? There is a chance we may not return."

"I failed the last time I tried to help her," Kurt's voice is barely a whisper above the crackling fire. "I will not fail a second time."

No more words follow, for both of the men fall into silent reflection. It is only now that they are able to grapple with their iron-weighted shroud and leave themselves to their individual bitterness. Only so long can he stand the chill before Vasco rises and bids the commander a goodnight, daydreams of his beloved Aurelie once more overtaking his wild mind, naught but cold phantoms offering nothing but torture.

Leaving him empty and alone again. The feeling leaves a bad taste upon his tongue. As he returns to his quarters, he tries not to think of what has transpired. Tries not to remember the little sparks of rage and vengeance amidst a sea of pain. 

Even if this is the wrong choice, the alternative is unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this long one! How do you think Vasco will react when he sees his former lover happy and sane in the arms of his nemesis? Will Kurt attempt to kill Aurelie again? 
> 
> Next up:  
> Vasco, Kurt and Aphra begin their journey to Hikmet with heavy hearts. Meanwhile Slan struggles to keep the rebelling clans in line.


	23. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths are revealed as the trial begins.

**༄ XXIII.**

Truth be told, Slàn may have volunteered to deal with the mess that is court in place of her soon to be nephew in law, but that does not mean she derives any real pleasure from being forced through hoops and knots of pleasantries and small talk for hours on end while Constantin and Aurelie are hiding in their chambers doing who knows what in peace, unbothered.

Well, she is fairly certain she does know what - as do most other people with common sense - and knowing is... surprisingly not as odd as she expected.

She hopes that her niece's love and devotion towards Constantin is enough to help him with his newest trial. What with the possibility of clans rebelling against them, Derdre's claim to the throne and the threat of war with Thélème... his thoughts must be a jumbled mess at the moment. Their single morning to themselves is well deserved and Slàn hopes that they are happily being together without thoughts of what is to come.

"Slàn?" the man in front of her calls, interrupting the spiraling cascade of thoughts with a diffident voice.

She shakes her head. "Just a momentary distraction, Petrus."

Whether the priest believes that excuse or not becomes swifty irrelevant. Because, at this moment, Síora chooses to approach. The  _ doneigad _ is resplendent and eye-catching in traditional native leathers accented with emerald green leaves. Eseld is on her right side, looking rather strained and fatigued beneath her blithe smile and sparkling green eyes. Derdre is on her other side, golden-eyed with the perfect mask of a confident and worriless  _ mál _ .

Slán would dearly like to carve that face off the  _ Cengaden anedas mál. _ It would be a long, bloody, messy affair full of screaming and pleading for mercy, and it would be wholly satisfying.

Instead, she offers her best smile, though it makes her chest burn. " _ Andevaurshd tír ent _ ."

" _ Andlorhedar, doneigad _ ," Síora answers, reaching out to embrace Slán without hesitation, as though they hadn't met in private just that morning. "It gladdens my heart to see you again! Though, I wish the tidings which have drawn us here are less grim."

Sun-yellow eyes flicker momentarily in the direction of the  _ mál _ of  _ Cengaden anedas _ unblinking and mercurial, and she wonders at the woman's tiny flinch as they swirl back around to stare into sharp pine green. "As would I. Alas, I think it is rather important to clear up these matters as quickly as possible. Do you not agree?"

Naturally, even as her words fade, the entirety of the native court watches and waits for Derdre's reply, until it's quiet enough to hear the ting of a pin upon the tile floor.

"I think," Slán says, with her smile widening upon her face, "That we shall proceed now that all parties are present. It's time we get this whole matter sorted. What do you say to that, Síora? Eseld?" She places a hand on each woman's shoulder, squeezing as if they are all the best of friends.

As if either of them are of status to protest the newly promoted advisor. 

"Ah," Derdre finally says, "but what of Constantin and De Sardet? I do see that the new gods of Tír Fradì are nowhere to be found even at this late afternoon hour. Should they not be here to decide the seat of High King?"

As they walk, Slán offers the woman a smile sharper than any blade, and hopes that the momentary flash of fear she catches in golden spheres stings. She hopes the phantom of Constantin in her eyes keeps the woman up at night, sweating and unsettled, with visions of bloodshed. "My dearest niece and soon to be nephew are indisposed" she explains in a sickly-sweet tone. "Anyone would be overwrought, what with how abruptly such claims have fallen upon a throne that is rightfully theirs.They are taking a moment to themselves, as they ought."

There is a bit of a murmur, the voices of  _ Yetch Fradì _ indistinct and curious in the background, whispering and gossiping already. For all that the couple are clearly besotted with one another to Slán's gaze - she, Petrus and Mev have spent many days watching the pair flirting and cuddling and laughing, not to mention sneaking off to copulate at every opportunity, and it is obvious that their engagement is more than a thing of convenience - to an outsider, it may not be so easy to see or acknowledge that a  _ lugeid blau _ prince can ever be a loving betrothed. They are generally considered to be heartless fiends.

In truth, of course, it is more that Aurelie is being a loving and doting almost-wife than the other way around. But they need not know such intimate details.

Derdre seems to accept this excuse with narrowed eyes and a thin-lipped smile. After all, who is she to refute those words, no matter how suspicious she clearly is of the pair's conspicuous absence.

Meanwhile, Síora squeezes her shoulder tighter still. "They really are very sweet together, dear Aurelie and Constantin. Rarely have I seen a young couple more in love! Anyone who looks upon them will see two  _ mindundhanem _ ."

Slán lets out a huff and tries not to roll her eyes at the  _ doneigad's _ antics, trying to lighten the atmosphere with false joviality and overstated fondness. 

A second hand on her shoulder pats gently and she almost looks over at Mev in surprise. It is strange how the reassuring touch makes her feel better, how the presence at her shoulder leaves her feeling grounded. Unspoken support - kind eyes silently speaking kind words - is not something she is generally accustomed to having or expecting in times of strife.

For once, though, half the  _ Yetch Fradì _ are united behind their chosen gods. What an alien world this has become.

Like water about stone, the crowd parts to allow the _ tierna harh cadachtas _ , Petrus and Daren through. For the first time, as she ascends the steps to sit in the ostentatious throne of the High King, Mev manages to look every inch a woman of regal bearing and breeding. Her deep blue robes fashioned in a the  _ Yetch Fradì _ style, flowing about her feet. Seating herself with a flourish, she looks down upon the gathering of  _ máls _ ,  _ doneigad _ and their warriors and leaves them feeling small. Quietly does Petrus sit at her side, all silver and white with his face set in a stoic mask, and Daren makes herself home at Mev’s other side, verdant eyes unblinking with a flat smile far more strained than Slán's own seemingly unbothered expression.

"Now, Derdre," the  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ says, voice carrying throughout the whole room and ringing unto the golden eaves overhead, "Bring your complaints and defense before my eyes. I am to act as a neutral party during these talks."

Immediately, Derdre steps forward, robes swishing dramatically about her legs as she raises her hands and lifts her chin. "It pains me to lay such accusations, but I feel there is no other choice in the matter! Constantin and De Sardet are not fit to rule the Tír Fradì, despite their... recent elevation in status. I personally witnessed the  _ lugeid blau _ prince send his beasts to assassinate our late High King. Therefore many of us feel that they should be cast out of our lands and allow us to choose a trustworthy new High King."

More murmurs spread about the room. Slán, for her part, thinks the whole thing sounds flimsy at best. Besides the fact that she doubts Constantin would have even bothered to deal with Dunncas, as he was otherwise distracted at the time. 

"And for what reason, might I ask, would the rightful gods have any interest in murdering High King Dunncas?" Slán asks, calm and steady. As much as she would like to be harsh and sharp with the woman to match the roiling in her chest, growling out her fury at such accusations being laid by Derdre that are being accepted by the  _ Yetch Fradì _ with frightening ease, she instead keeps her voice low and crooning, a melodic counterpart to the raucous loudness of her foe. And, with the sound of her voice layered in hints of power, she watches as the people nearest by almost melt at the sound, their eyes glazing over as they fall into the spell of her words.

"I am quite certain that Dunncas would be nothing but a boon for the gods," comments the  _ mál _ lightly, and her mouth twitches in displeasure. She must have noticed the effect that Slán's voice has on their observers, for she must have resisted its call of her own accord.

At those words, the  _ doneigad _ can do nothing but scoff faintly in barely concealed disgust. "Constantin and De Sardet are beings who possess the power of  _ En on mil frichtimen _ . They wouldn't have been bothered by Dunncas," she responds. "Truth be told, I should think that you do not have a reason for which they would do such a thing because there  _ is _ no reason, and certainly not one so flimsy as Dunncas being a threat to their rule."

"Would you not have done it if the High King commanded us to drive them out?" Derdre asks, taking a different approach. "Would you not have slain the man who threatened the position of your only living kin?"

_ I would have _ , Slán silently admits. There are few things she will not do for the sake of her  _ sir's _ daughter. By  _ En on mil frichtimen _ , she would murder children for the sake of De Sardet! Raze cities! 

But she has not done so to her own people. And neither have Constantin and De Sardet. The accusations are, therefore, entirely unappreciated.

"Do you think us so weak?" she asks quietly, seemingly unruffled even though her blood is boiling in her veins. "In one breath you cast them as irredeemable monsters, and the next you decide they are willing to go such lengths out of cowardice and fear."

"It is you who stated yourself that your niece is hiding away from the public with the prince. That hardly seems the actions of a fearless, all powerful god," the  _ mál _ counters, though her voice is of a harsher make than the gentle and whispery tones of Slán and seems to startle some of the onlookers out of their haze. "Besides that, there are some who are not quite convinced that the sudden disappearance of Dunncas was not a very calculated political move meant to protect them from being driven out after murdering our god. What better way to throw our clans into chaos and prevent us from going to war against them?"

It is desperately offensive. Especially given all that De Sardet has done for the  _ Yetch Fradì _ and Dunncas in particular. It is she who raised him to the status of High King. Slán glances towards Petrus, who is smiling, though it is beginning to look wooden.

"King Dunncas was a man De Sardet held in high esteem," Slán murmurs, "She would never permit Constantin to carry out this murder. Nor do I think Dunncas would have rebelled against them, as their relationship was quite close. He would have supported them both."

"Do you really expect us to believe - ?"

"Enough of this," Mev interrupts quietly, leading both women to look up into her watchful gaze. "We are not here to debate hypotheticals. Do you have any  _ evidence _ of the gods committing the act of murder on Dunncas, or do you not, Derdre?"

The scolding is faint, but Slán is happy for the interruption. Her temper is already growing thin with the prevaricating. 

"Not as such," Derdre forces out, "But they were suspiciously nearby on the day of the attack and Dunncas' body appeared to be ravaged by numerous beasts."

Moss green eyes shift back to Slán. "Well,  _ doneigad _ , should we be concerned?"

"Constantin was in the premises of the murder, which took place just outside  _ Anemhaid _ . He was intent on bringing De Sardet back to New Sérenè to undergo the transformation and there were a few hours during that time where his whereabouts were unknown-"

"What do you mean,  _ unknown _ ?" Derdre interrupts.

Sourly, Slán looks over at the  _ mál _ and thinks about how, if she had not saved her life during the battle of  _ Anemhaid _ , then she would not be here, explaining that she briefly lost track of Constantin amongst the carnage. It looks awful and sounds ridiculous. And it takes all her effort not to hiss through her clenched teeth, instead sending the woman a thin smile when she sees a glimmer of dark pleasure looking back from vibrant gold. 

"I left De Sardet in Constantin's care to loop back to the battlegrounds and look for any survivors of my clan. But Constantin was worried sick about her and would have made all haste to New Séréne rather than hunt down Dunncas."

"So, you do not know where he was?" Several people in the room shift, and there is the slightest ring of triumph in Derdre's slimy voice. Slán dearly wishes, in this moment, that she can just reach over and snap the woman's neck like a twig and be done with the whole matter. Once upon a time, in the midst of war and death, no one would have so much as blink, let alone protest.

"No," she admits, struggling to keep her voice level through the clench of her jaw. "But I cannot imagine Constantin going out of his way to kill a man who would have been his greatest ally."

"Perhaps. But he is well known to have grown mad after surviving the malichor," Derdre points out sharply, teeth flickering white behind her lips. "I will ask, would he not have done it if he thought Dunncas would harm De Sardet or his rule?"

At least at that, Slán has to laugh, because it is just such a ridiculous statement. And, to her great amusement, the ring of her short burst of laughter has the natives in the room further softening, the tension of their suspicion and excitement washing right out of their muscles helplessly at the harmonic sound. "Constantin is the most abrasive, self-centered - pardon my language -  _ asshole _ that I have ever met. Yet he does not commit random acts of murder due to a sudden bout of madness. De Sardet's prescence alone soothes that part of him and he loves her so much that he will do anything she asks. Petrus would know."

Indeed, the priest's face goes white as a sheet. No doubt, he remembers his own trials with the pair and knows how dangerous they can be when one is without the other. A shame Slán needs to dredge up so many undoubtedly unpleasant memories for her dear ally, but...

Well, she is not so soft hearted as to feel bad about it. Not truly.

All eyes in the room take in the forbidding expression on their normally smiling and kind-hearted  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ . "I will not dispute Slán's point. Though I have not known him long, I cannot imagine Constantin going against De Sardet's wishes. And I cannot see him gaining anything from such an endeavor. I rather believe he would not have bothered."

"But you cannot rule it out," Derdre insists. "He could have done it to solidify his grip over us."

Again, Slán scoffs. "I will agree that Constantin would never do something purely out of fear, but he is less calculating than you believe. He could have wiped us out when he gained his godly powers, but he did not. As such he has already gained the loyalty of  _ Anemen shádí _ ,  _ Sísaíg cnámeis _ and  _ Doneia egsregaw _ without manipulation."

Skeptical eyes stare from all directions, but Slán refuses to back down from her stance, no matter how strange her claims might sound to those who know nothing about the  _ renaigse _ . Rather she prefers that the public will not smear the name of the man Aurelie loves who, though his methods can sometimes be cruel in teaching, often goes out of his way to look after and protect De Sardet and the  _ Yetch Fradì _ . Constantin has - and had - caused trouble for himself out of no other motive than helping the people of Tír Fradì by driving off the remaining  _ renaigse _ for no other reason than wanting to live happily with Aurelie and see the clans flourish once again.

What a romantic he truly is beneath all that bright-eyed bluster and scorn, Slán can not help but think, wryly fond through her own dislike.

"Does that not strike you as a bit biased?" the  _ mál _ asks then, mouth curling into a scoff. "Perhaps you see him through a bit of a rosy tint?"

"Do not make me laugh," she responds, crossing her arms and fixing the woman with a haughty stare. "I may love Constantin as family - even when he is the most onerous and obnoxious asshole I have ever met - but I am far from blind to his faults. Who do you think they practice their sharp tongues and callous ways upon but their own advisors? Loving family does not require that I always, or ever, like them, nor that I find no fault in their behaviour or character."

"So, you admit, then, that they  _ could _ be capable," Derdre insists.

"We are not here for  _ could be _ ," Mev interrupts once again, voice taking on a forbidding tone. "So exactly how long was Constantin out of your sight, Slán?"

"Not for two hours at least," the  _ doneigad _ admits with a sigh. "It is not very long and he is unfamiliar with our land."

"And the rest of you?" the  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ presses.

"I was seeing to some of the wounded members of  _ Sísaíg cnámeis _ at the time," Petrus reveals, "But by the time I arrived in New Sérenè, Constantin was already there hovering over the object of his affections and remained at her side for days thereafter. I sincerely doubt he would have gone out of his way to seek Dunncas, as he was much too distracted with De Sardet's condition."

Golden eyes blink at him, lashes lowering. "He could have ordered it the night before. Or telepathically sent his beasts after Dunncas."

"Or he could have nothing at all to do with the matter!" Slán feels her temper snap just a touch. "Constantin -"

"He was not involved." This is spoken not by Mev but the  _ Doneia egsregaw mál _ . Daren lingers nearby to the throne, wrapped in earthy tones and flora native to her clan that flow around her slender form and are decorated with green and blue designs to complement the emerald seaglass about her throat. "Constantin wandered into our encampment that night."

All eyes are upon her and Mev, who coughs delicately into her fist. "Indeed, I was breifly there." The admission is not so grudgingly made as Slán would think. In fact, both  _ doneigad _ and  _ mál _ seem rather pointed in their words, as though they take offense on Constantin's behalf at the accusations being put forward. It is rather novel, and Slán feels her own curiosity burgeoning, that doubtful new allies would come to a  _ renaigse's _ aid willingly without being asked or bribed.

But that curiosity will be saved for another time.

"He could have snuck out and come back," Derdre insists, "Or -"

"He did not," Daren interrupts, thoroughly slicing through that round of hypothesizing. "I watched him closely. One does not take former foes into their home lightly, but he did no harm the whole night, nor did he depart and return."

The barest moment of frustration crosses Derdre's face. Clearly, the woman has not expected Constantin to have such a solid alibi as staying in the home of the ones who fought and died against his corrupted army for the night of this supposed murder. No one dares to question Daren, most natives balking in the face of the woman's reputation as a just, honorable and honest  _ mál _ . Personally, Slán thinks that her reputation is a bit overblown by all the ridiculous legends and stories in which she features, but the  _ doneigad _ keeps her opinions about the matter to herself, biting her tongue.

"He could have easily tricked you all with his new powers. We do not truly know their extent, after all." Derdre argues, hands gesticulating sharply through the air, alive with her irritation at the way the debate is progressing.

It takes everything Slán has not to sneer down her nose at the woman now desperately grabbing at any potential scenario she can concoct to pass blame for the High King's murder onto Constantin. All for that seat she so desperately covets. "He has not shown any indication of having such abilities," she softly answers instead, "So that would be rather impossible, don't you think?"

"And we have no one's word but yours to confirm that." Derdre sneers, her visage turning ugly and harsh. "You can just as easily be lying and none of us can confirm or deny your account."

The murmurs about the room grow in volume. And, for her part, the doneigad bites back the urge to snarl out her offense.  _ Sísaíg cnámeis _ is many things, but it has never been a clan populated with liars. She so wishes she could take up a blade and cut out Derdre's tongue for such a slight! Certainly, were Constantin here instead, he would have threatened much worse for maligning his name!

Instead, Slán first gives the  _ mál _ an arched look, not dignifying the newest accusation with a response, and then turns to Mev. " _ Tierna harh cadachtas _ , I will maintain that Constantin was not in any position to murder anyone that night, and these accusations are merely a coward's way of attemping to gain the empty seat of High King."

"That is ridiculous! I would have been perfectly fine with whomever the gods chose as the new High King up until I saw the mangled corpse of the previous one!" Indeed, Derdre is not pleased at all with the questioning being turned back upon her, seemingly outraged that someone might suggest something so mundane and unacceptable as greed.

"Derdre," Síora interrupts, drawing all eyes and silencing the  _ mál's _ protests. " _ Enough _ . Enough is enough."

Everyone goes quiet. Onlookers and combatants alike.

Slán looks on in surprise as the young  _ doneigad _ puts a stop to the arguing. Even Mev raises a brow, the only sign of surprise on her features. Derdre does not seem too happy with her ally's intervention, fury flashing across her eyes and her face, breaking through the vengeful facade.

_ Clearly, the other clans are not so united as we thought _ . And Síora wants to make it clear that she and Derdre are not standing shoulder to shoulder in the matter.

It is bold and dangerous. Slán wouldn't have suggested something so blatant.

"Is there a problem, Síora?" Mev asks calmly.

"No," the younger sister of Eseld says, voice low and steady but face hard and eyes flashing with her own lightning fast rage. "No. I simply do not believe in casting blame without evidence, and we have nothing but speculation."

Slowly, Slán releases a long breath. Around her, she can sense the disappointment of the natives at such an anticlimactic ending to the unfolding drama, but she is glad for it all the same. Now, Derdre is not going to continue her argument, not unless she wants the entirety of the  _ Yetch Fradì _ to witness the discord of their alliance and start an argument with her strongest ally. Bad enough that they are already having a solemn staring match whilst standing attendant at the foot of the High King's throne. 

"Well, do you have anything more to add?" Mev asks after allowing a few long moments of silence. 

Both pairs of eyes turn to look upon the woman. "I think not," Derdre answers. "It is as Síora says. We have but speculation. No evidence and no witnesses."

The  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ releases a long sigh, shoulders rounding. Suddenly, it is no longer a distant star sitting over their heads passing judgement, but a normal woman, no more or less spectacular than any other. At that, the tension fully drains from Slán's shoulders, for she knows the official questioning is over and done with. "Derdre," Mev says, "I know this is difficult - to seek vengeance after such tragic losses that many here understand well enough, I too lost people in  _ Anemhaid _ \- but pointing fingers and casting blame where it is not due is not the answer to your suffering."

The statement is meant to be a reassurance, and Slán feels her breath catch at how genuine those words seem to be. 

"Of course. Your words are wise,  _ teirna harh cadachtas. _ " Derdre agrees, though Slán can see that jaw is tightly clenched beneath her softening expression, showcasing just the barest hint of frustration to those looking just a bit too close. "Forgive me. As you know, a leader is never in their best state of mind when surrounded by the deaths of loved ones."

"No, I do not imagine it would be," Mev soothes. "Please, let us put these accusations behind us such that we can work together again. I am certain that Constantin and De Sardet would be pleased if you helped them drive off the remaining  _ renaigse _ ."

"No."

Head snapping around, Slán meets blazing emerald eyes. They stare at her, burning and wild. Enough so that she feels her breath catch in her lungs, hitched hard.

"We do not want to ally ourselves with the new gods. They have brought nothing but pain and misfortune down upon all they touch."

It is spat, like fire and poison, from Eseld's lips. The look on her face... the look in her eyes.. Slán has seen it a thousand times before. Staring out at her from the faces of dying strangers. Staring out at her from broken mirrors and shining pine-green eyes. If anything could kill her voice, suck the air straight from her lungs and leave her gasping, it is  _ that _ look in those verdant eyes.

"We will not push you if that is your wish," Slán replies. "The gods have no desire to cause any trouble or pain. But you are of the _Yetch Fradì_ \- a vital part of the gods domain and their protection is freely offered. All you need do is say the word."

"Well, we will not have to," Eseld snarls out.

"Now, now, that is quite enough," Mev intervenes, holding up her hands, as though by doing so she might conjure a wall between the enemy lines to hold their hissing and snarling at bay. "I think that is enough for tonight, do you all not agree? Let us all convene later as friends. Or, at the very least, allies. There is a wedding to be held soon after all."

"We will not ally with  _ them _ ," Derdre hisses out. And then, with little more than a shallow bow in the direction of the  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ , she and her allies depart the room in a hurry, pushing at least three warriors aside with her shoulder along the way.

There is the barest hint of exasperation upon Mev's face as she watches them depart in a flurry of anger and hurt. "Grief makes strangers of us all," she murmurs. "I feel the need to retire now after all this fuss. Today has been long and difficult for all involved."

As though anyone is going to try and stop her. Standing, Mev sweeps down from her perch. Lingering behind is Petrus and Daren, both wearing anxious expressions.

As she passes, Mev lays a hand upon Slán's shoulder. 

" _ Doneigad, Toig, es radei em rádíd cwad. _ "

"Yes,  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ ," the advisor replies flatly, the lyrical cadence fleeing from her voice so suddenly that many nearby people flinch with surprise at hearing her true voice after being so lulled by just a whisper of power in her tone. With a last glance at Petrus and Daren, she trails after the woman.

Relieved to be away from the watching eyes of clansmen, Slán breathes out a long sigh as soon as they are out in the halls. The staring eyes of so many onlookers - some she used to consider as friends - will always be unsettling to her warrior instincts.

Except, she still feels it. Someone staring.

It is only then, out of the corner of her eye, that she sees a glimpse of someone at the end of the hall. Green eyes, burning and fiery, bore straight through her, spear-like and hot upon her skin.

But not maliciously. There is anger there, even hatred, but not directed towards her, who pauses midstride and stands now frozen in the center of the hall. Eseld merely inclines her head cordially and ducks away.

Without saying anything, she follows Mev in the opposite direction.

  
  


༄

  
  


_ Quite a show, too bad Constantin and Aurelie weren't there to see it, _ Mev can not help but think as she collapses at her makeshift desk, drained after playing the benevolent and unbiased judge pretending she has no idea what sort of evil happenings are ongoing right under her very nose. Slán sits gingerly across from her and waits in silence. 

The  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

Normally, she would not allow such a loss of decorum, especially before the eyes of someone she respects - she has enough experience with Slán's particular tendency to take advantage of weaknesses to know better - but she can not bring herself to care at the moment. Dealing with this whole mess has done nothing to quell the constant headache now pounding at the back of her skull, nor the anxious twitching that besieges her muscles. This, on top of all the other preparations crowding her mind. In less than a week they will be holding Constantin and De Sardet's marriage ceremony. It will be a traditional  _ Yetch Fradì _ ceremony, as they have insisted and she will be officiating it. Thus far the new gods seem unbothered by the rising tensions between their group of natives and Derdre, both are confident in their abilities to subdue the woman after all. But Mev knows better...

"Mev?"

She sighs again, shoving all these crowding thoughts away. When she looks up at Slán's somber face, she feels old and tired. It is a feeling she has not tasted for many years. Not since the first tenuous years of being  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ when she had been new to her position and things had felt terribly uncertain the wake of  _ renaigse _ invading her home.

"I was not expecting things to go so smoothly," she comments. "I had thought Derdre would rally her allies and storm the palace."

"She is still a threat, is she not?" Slán's eyes narrow.

"Yes." Mev's lips thin. It is not so much that she is afraid of what the  _ mál _ will do, but she is unpredictable and unpredictability is not something that she favors. 

"Is she truly so upset with them?" the  _ doneigad _ asks, voice taking on an odd undertone of curiosity rather than worry. "Will she do something at the wedding?"

"No, I do not believe she will try to lay siege to Hikmet or attempt to harm Constantin and De Sardet. Though she does seem quite upset.." If anything, Derdre is likely upset with everything about her situation and who can blame her for that? "But we are here as advisors and protectors to the new gods, so that nothing will happen to them."

Slán meets her eyes, both an endless verdant green. "We can only hope."

  
  


༄

  
  


"What is the meaning of that nonsense in the throne room? What in the name of  _ En on mil frichtimen _ has come over you, Síora?"

The very moment Derdre steps through the door to their guest room, walking in upon the  _ doneigad _ with a glass of liquor in hand and a dark look upon her face as she gazes into the heart-fire, the older woman sets into the younger with all haste. Looking over the  _ mál's _ features, uncharacteristically harsh with her outrage at having her own ally publicly break ranks and negate her words, leaves her feeling more or less than vindictive and petty pleasure.

_ Good _ , she deserves to have her feathers ruffled, to know that things will not go her way without a fight.

It comes to her mind that, perhaps, she had acted a little rashly in the midst of her frustration. In her mind's eye, she had planned to play the part of a dutiful ally for just a little while longer, trying to minimize suspicion upon her own person for a long as she might manage whilst weaving together a net with which to capture Derdre quietly in the background of political disruption. Something she learned from Aurelie back when she was legate. But, seeing the  _ mál's _ falsely contrite face as she acted concerned before all those eyes... Seeing her pretend to care about Dunncas when she openly hated the man... 

Thinking of Aurelie and how exhausted and grieved she was the last time they had spoken... 

Greed and lust for a throne that is not hers is unforgivable, and Síora could not sit still and listen to the lies hissing sibilantly between the  _ mál's _ teeth for even a moment longer! It is not just the simple denial of her motivations, but to try and foist Dunncas' murder onto an innocent party - for, in this matter, at least, Constantin is innocent - only stoked the fire in Síora's blood until she could hold her tongue no longer.

Stepping in was probably foolish. But it is too late to back down now. In snarling insults upon the gods, Eseld may have negated some of the damage, made it look to watchers as though they are no more pleased with the gods as Derdre is. However, it will be clear now to the  _ mál _ that she is not about to fall obediently in line and let things unfold as the woman plans.

Unpredictability. Probably Derdre's leave favorite trait in a person. Probably, the reason she most dispises Aurelie in particular.

"We had a plan! Straightforward and simple! Do you know what you have done?" For once, Derdre's voice is raised as she stalks forward, as she crowds into Síora's personal space and spits out her fury in the  _ doneigad's _ smirking face. "Weeks of work are set back! And now, we may lose the clans who back us!"

Síora scoffs. "I certainly hope that you do not plan to pursue the position of High King any further. It has become increasingly clear that you cannot be trusted."

For the first time in her life, Síora is struck. It is almost a shock to feel the sting of it across her cheek. Barely hard enough to force her head to turn, but she still knows that her pale skin will bear a red print within the hour, and perhaps even bruise on the morrow.

Mutinously, she turns to glare back into infuriated golden eyes. And she absolutely refuses to let the spiteful smile, small and taunting, fade from her lips.

"I am the rightful High King," Derdre snarls, "And you  _ owe _ me your obedience."

"I owe you nothing," Síora snaps out. "You have proven yourself incompetent, incapable of handling your own duties to  _ Cengaden anedas _ as a responsible  _ mál _ ought to do. I have no respect for a woman who sees to nothing and no one above herself and her own avarice."

The second slap she sees coming well in advance, and she grabs the woman's wrist to halt the blow before it strikes her throbbing cheek. Holding the delicate joint firmly within her hand, she resists the urge to squeeze until it pops and then twist the dislocated limb until the  _ mál _ shrieks with agony. She has done it before while manipulating vines in battles against  _ renaigse _ , done it so easily that the motion is second nature, unfolding in an instant, the perpetrator so accustomed to the feeling of her prey's body halting and shuddering with pain that she would not even flinch at the cracking noise of bone popping out or the sound of screaming in her ears. 

Tempting as physical violence is, she thinks, there is greater humiliation to be passed upon her than physical harm.

Roughly, seething with her own impatience and frustration, she tosses the hand aside. "I will make sure that you - and anyone else who means Aurelie harm - stays far, far away from her. Even if I have to spill blood to make it so. That much I can promise you,  _ mál. _ "

"You would threaten me with violence?" the woman asks at Síora's back as she abandons her half-finished drink and makes for the door. "Your sister will hear of this, I promise you. At least I can rely on her support."

"Eseld is blinded by vengeance," Siora says without turning around, though she pauses with the wood of the door frame beneath her palm, smooth and cool, "But she will soon discover you are worse than Constantin and Aurelie."

"What has changed? You have never challenged me before," Derdre replies, voice mocking. "Why do you suddenly care about them? They killed your clansmen and left you behind to die in the mud."

"Perhaps I finally realize where my true loyalties lie," Síora says, thinking of the few years she spent alongside Aurelie. Of the people who looked to the legate for guidance and protection in the darkest days when the future seemed dire, in an endless battleground with no hope for salvation in sight. Those were the same people she had later watched slaughtered, splayed across the grass in a rain of blood and entrails at her feet, destroyed by how she and them had trusted Aurelie with their very lives. But it was _ not her fault _ "The battle against Constantin.. The lives lost.. It was not Aurelie's fault."

"If anything, that whore is the sole reason it happened in the first place. We would have won were it not for her lusting after a man who would watch us all burn just for his amusement!" Derdre seethes, and her voice shudders over Síora's skin like cold slime. 

With that, Síora pushes past the door and slams it in her wake.

Not willing to wait around for the  _ mál _ to stumble into the hall raining down obscenities and insults upon her person, she sets off instead for her own chambers. From this point on, she supposes she will have to take more care about keeping her rooms locked at all times. Sleeping with the same lightness as she did when traveling with Aurelie will be a hassle, but she needs to rouse at even the lightest tread upon her floorboards, for she will not put it past Derdre - or the clans backing her - to come for her in the dead of night.

  
_I almost wish they will_ , she thinks viciously through the sting of hurt through her chest. A sting she wishes she does not feel. Movements harsh and quick, she ascends the stairs two at a time. _Then I will have an excuse to take my sword to their guts._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations  
> Andevaurshd tír ent | "May the earth welcome them"  
> Andlorhedar | "Thank you"  
> lugeid blau | "Yellow eyes" Native term for the Congregation  
> mindundhanem |"Soulmate"  
> tierna harh cadachtas |The spiritual authority on Tir Fradi. Mev is also doneigad of the Anemen Shadi clan.  
> Toig, es radei em rádíd cwad | "Come, I must speak with you."  
> En on mil frichtimen | Former god of Tir Fradi.  
> Anemhaid |"The Fiery Soul" A battleground/trial area outside a dormant volcano that used to hold En on mil frichtimen. It was used as a battleground when the factions forged an alliance to defeat Constantin.
> 
> Next up:  
> Prince d'Orsay confronts a prisoner and receives startling information while Constantin discovers a secret De Sardet keeps...


	24. Minundhanem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Constantin and De Sardet gain what little privacy they can get while the Yetch Fradi celebrate the end of the trial.

**༄ XXIV.**

_ His hands were warm. _

_ That was the first thing she noticed about Constantin d'Orsay beyond his dark glances and his stagnant bath of self-hatred. _

_ His hair was starkly golden against his pale complexion, but his cheeks were ever flushed with anger or with bashfulness, never wane and blanched. It was plain that he did not know what to say to her as they walked side by side upon the snow-covered paths, their bodies touching only where her hand curved into the crook of his elbow and the awkward, soft palm of his opposite hand rested atop her knuckles. _

_ Together, they traversed, leaving not even footprints upon the ground to mark their passage. Eventually, the tense quietness broken by the creaking barren trees ceased, driven away by the cold and the moon. Leaving them with only companionable silence and the whisper of memories echoing upon bark. With the way of his anger simmering under the cap of black emotion and her sorrow near to overflowing from its vessel of icy control - but both of them bubbling at a steady temperature and held in place, knotted and bound by the opposite. _

_ Somehow balancing. It was... peaceful. Pleasant and warm, as his fingertips stroked the back of her hand. _

_ Words needn't be spoken between them. Aurelie leaned against his shoulder and felt her eyes drift shut against the sight of whiteness and gray in every direction. To block out the heaviness of winter descending upon the land, the chill brushing its frostbitten fingers against her cheeks and the darkness of the sky cutting off the heat of Sérène. _

_ It was nice, this silence. For the first time in a very long time, Aurelie felt her breath slowly escape her lips in a sigh, not of regret or despair, but of contentment. _

_ His eyes glanced down at her with the coming of a soft sound. From beneath her lashes she could see his eyes, so terribly hot - white-hot stars set in alabaster, the glare of sunlight on summer days - and yet when they settled upon her there came the crack of their shell. The tiny liquid gleam of curiosity and wonder. A strange and inexplicable sort of softness. _

_ A sigh to match her own was released, his breath tickling at the wisps of her hair atop her head. They continued to walk side-by-side and arm-in-arm even as his eyes dropped shut. Walked until they had completed a circle and came back to where they had first met. Where they had first started their small journey. _

_ And then they parted, moving in opposite directions. Not even bothering with a 'farewell'. _

_ Because the next day, again, they met in the same place beneath the same skeletal trees. And once again Aurelie enjoyed the warmth of those broad palms and the high colour of wind-licked cheeks. _

_ The strange softness of hollow eyes. _

**** _ ༄ _

_ Eventually, it was hard to imagine life without that warmth. Without his touch melting away the snows of her winter and leaving something new beneath. Something slowly blossoming under the soft brushes of his fingers and the caresses of his blazing eyes. _

_ Perhaps it was foolish. She, Aurelie, the daughter of Princess d'Orsay and legate of the Congregation, playing at courting with her own cousin. They were a recipe for discord and failure waiting to burst forth as a rotted, withering bloom. And yet they still complimented one another so subtly, so perfectly. Allowed one another to be soothed of harsh thoughts and jagged memories where all there seemed to be in the world was turmoil pulling them downwards. _

_ Constantin, with his stiff smiles and low, hoarse hums, was erasing the gap that had enveloped her existence, weighing her down as a wingless bird. Was painting over the scars in the wake of isolation and abuse, the recollection of a dying mother, that crippled her spirit. Was giving her the weightlessness of her feet upon the clouds to replace the feeling, day by day, of the little life and vibrancy she had once possessed slowly slipping away. _

_ When she was at his side, she did not feel transparent. Did not feel the thinness of her material raiment as it stretched and pulled. Did not feel as though, at any moment, she might disappear entirely like mist and smoke. _

_ She looked at her hand and saw the healthy flush of life instead. She looked at the snow and saw the thousand-colour array of light gleaming off the miniscule crystals. She glanced up at the once-evergreen trees and came to appreciate the blue shadows of their quivering arms in the red light of the setting winter sun. _

_ It was not happiness. Maybe it would never be - for either one of them, broken and lost as they were within their own tragedies - but it was release. _

_ It was something other than frightful decay. The descent into a shadow of death. _

_ It was enough. _

_ Enough to hold his hand and soak in his colour until it shone through her flesh. Enough to lean against his shoulder and hear again a heartbeat strong beneath her ear to negate her loneliness. Enough to stand beneath the boughs of Sérène and watch together new buds blooming upon the white, naked branches. _

_ Until spring came upon the world to match her blistered heart. _

༄

Halfway through the night, Constantin spots Derdre stalking through the crowd, parting people left and right to make way as she sweeps forward, Eseld trailing behind. Sìora's sister looks somewhat windswept and upset, her mouth downturned and strained. 

She comes within a few feet of the pair, Constantin and Aurelie, takes one look at them arm-in-arm, pressing indecently close, and lets out a sound of impotent rage and scorn, like the very sight of them is beyond offensive. Those eyes could have frozen him solid for all their pale, icy hatred.

"Cursed  _ renaigse _ , why can you not just..." She releases another frustrated snarl. For a moment, Constantin wonders if he ought to brace himself for an attack.

Then, as fast as she came, the enraged  _ mál _ is gone in an offended flurry of mahogany robes and dark hair, seemingly too repulsed to even stand within the sight of the so-named gods of Tír Fradì.

"Well, that look certainly suits the  _ màl _ ," Constantin comments lightly, watching her form disappear into the sea of party-goers. And it rather does. He does not take her hatred personally - he is used to being despised and revels in the discomfort of those who shudder and scorn his presence, delighting in riling them up until they explode - even he is not very fond of dealing with the temperamental woman.

Turning, he glances over at Slán, who is watching the woman depart with a flat look lacking even the slightest bit of pity. "You know, I agree. It does rather suit her. Yet you were not there during the trial and therefore will have to endure her scorching remarks and stares."

Well, clearly Constantin is getting no sympathy from the  _ doneigad _ .

"Sometimes even gods need a break once in a while," Aurelie whispers teasingly, pulling him off to the side. As they have been all night, the circling male vultures are held back from pursuing the beautiful silver-clad lady by the presence of her fiance. "Besides, I do not regret how we spent this morning."

"True.. If I had attended, I would've worked hard to make Derdre angry enough to try and scratch my eyes out if only to send her to the cells."

"You can be rather infuriating like that. Were you to simply throw yourself into fury like your father, you might not be so dangerous. Or so interesting," she agrees. As though she is not constantly as infuriating to deal with. "So,  _ minundhanem _ , the hour grows late. How shall we spend the rest of the night? I grow tired of this tame party. Soon Petrus is going to ask the singers and dancers to perform traditional  _ Yetch Fradì  _ pieces and I have seen them a thousand times before already."

"We can go," he suggests, wrapping an arm around her waist and steering her towards the door. "The entire city is nothing but a conglomeration of drunken revelry now that Derdre's accusations have been laid to rest."

"I was thinking more like the gardens," she refutes, "Or our chambers. Somewhere with a little more privacy."

_ A little more privacy? _

"I think there is a sitting room off to the side somewhere in this direction where we might glean some privacy," he recalls, nearly pushing her giggling form out the door. The wine in her glass comes precariously close to spilling, sloshing right up to the rim of her glass and scattering in little bloody droplets. Not that he is doing much better, rocking back on his heels beneath the sudden appearance of her weight up against his chest, her arms snaking around his neck and her hands tugging at his golden curls.

Reckless, wild and spontaneous as ever, he lets her pull him down into a sloppy kiss, sinking into her taste, the sweetness of summer berries and the heady flavour of rich wine. His arm around her waist pulls her along as he backpedals further into the maze of hallways, hazily trying to figure out which rooms might not be occupied.

Still kissing, still barely coming up for breath before each new dive, they press up against a few doors, taking just long enough for one or the other to jiggle the handle, until they find one that opens into a darkened maw. Unoccupied. Perfect.

He kicks the door closed and presses her up against the wood with a thud, groaning into her mouth as he feels her hands drag down his back with the faint score of nails, coming to rest on his ass and squeeze. The sensation shoots up his spine, flashing white behind his eyes, leaving heat pooling heavily in the pit of his belly. In return, he rakes his hands up her thighs, listening to her sigh against his mouth as he tangles his fingers in the layers of pale fabric as he goes, dragging them up and up until his hands meet her soft, bare skin. One of her hands reaches down to help hold her plethora of skirts in place as his right hand grasps at her undergarments and pulls downwards.

"Off," she hisses as their mouths part, tugging at the undesirable fabric. "Constantin,  _ get them off _ . I want them off."

Falling to his knees on the carpeted floor, he pulls the undergarments the rest of the way down to her feet while she holds her skirts back. She kicks them off to the side, and is distracted by her delicate little ankles and slender, flexing calves, admiring them with his callused palms as he rises back up, one hand finding the hollow in the back of her knee - lifting the joint up and out of the way - and the other finding the dampness of scarlet curls at her apex.

His mouth blocks the loud noise that vibrates in her throat as he drags his fingers down her slit, taking in the blazing heat and petal-soft smoothness of her sex. She is just as aroused as he, her pearl swollen beneath the harsh rub of his fingertips. Pinching and circling with this thumb has her squealing loudly into his neck, her hands clawing at the back of his shoulders, dragging the powder blue of his beautifully made tunic up over his skin. As eagerly as he had touched her between her legs, she cups him between his, cradling the heavy weight of his cock and his sac, rolling the heel of her palm against him through his leggings, and then pulling gracelessly at the ties holding the fabric barrier in place.

Very little makes him feel so hot beneath his skin, so overwhelmed and uncontrolled, as such forward and exuberant acceptance of his rough advances. Hissing at the pleasure that rolls over his body in waves from the place where she strokes, he simultaneously presses two fingers deep into her heat and sinks his teeth into the white skin of her throat.

"Constantin!" Her whole body arches and sways upwards, driving her hips towards the digits burying to the knuckle in her dripping opening. Her touches cease, her palms pressing back against the wall to support her as she tries to get closer, to push him deeper, to incite the movement that they both desperately crave.

He sinks his teeth into her again, and the way she cries out in bliss has white flashing behind his eyes. Now, he absolutely needs his leggings out of the way. He absolutely needs his turgid cock sunk to the hilt in her velvety heat. And he needs it  _ right now _ .

Would that he has more hands, for he is loath to pull away from where his fingers stretch her open, driving into her in slow, deep dives that make her sigh and shiver where she is pressed to the door. Yet, he has to pull away (feels a sharp pang of need in his loins as she releases a disappointed, inciting whine, one of her hands reaching out to try and pull his back between her legs) and reaches for the ties of his leggings, harshly pulling until the knots come undone. She must see what he is doing despite his hand bowing over her, his mouth leaving a trail of marks up her otherwise untouched throat, for her fingers catch in the fabric and shoves it down.

No need to remove it entirely. He is fully erect and burning, letting out an animalistic growl when she squeezes and then begins to tug in strokes that are just the perfect amount of right and give and speed and softness. Fuck, she knows what it is doing to him.

Well, he will have to match her, attack for attack. With a groan, deep-seated in his chest, he reaches down and picks her right up off the ground, almost violently shoving her into the heavy wood of the door - anyone walking by would hear it and could guess what is happening on the other side - with his arms beneath her legs, opening her thighs wide to make room for him as he steps in closer.

Not that she is not a willing participant. "Constantin," she moans out, grasping him again and pointing him directly where he wants to go. "Constantin, I want you inside of me. Right now!"

If he had less to drink and not so lost in the heat of the moment, in the shudder of his skin at her words and the thought of emptying his seed into her, he might purr out a charming, "Yes, my lady," in reply. Instead, he drives himself into her with all the strength he can muster in his thighs and hips and abdominals. His cock into her dripping channel. His teeth into the softness of her breast just shy of the low-cut collar of her gown. As though he has stabbed her, her body jolts and writhes, spearing through, her hands near-tearing the fabric beneath her nails as they curl into fists and yank.

Constantin is breathless from the clench of hot, rippling muscle around his sensitive organ. He moans her name, long and low, and she echoes his back. For that long moment, they revel in each feeling the other, connecting so intimately.

And then he moves.

Thrusts into her almost wildly to the match the frantic grabbing and groping of her faintly uncoordinated hands on his back and shoulders and chest. Leaning down near where the cleave of her breasts are showing invitingly, he feels the drag of a nipple against his cheek and turns his head, mouth and teeth clamping down upon it through the pale fabric.

Her heels bang sharply against his back, wrapping around and holding him deeper as her inner walls spasm. "Oh,  _ minundhanem _ , do not stop!"

He has not the mental capacity to tell her to pull her damn dress out of the way, nor the dexterity to hold her up with one arm so that he can rip the fabric out of the way himself. If he could, he would feast on her breasts, leaving trails of swollen love marks around each ripe bud, for each time he nips at her skin he feels her insides clench into molten vice around him, and he is rewarded with another bolt of white lightning up his spine and between his legs.

As it is, he contents himelf with that he can get with her sensitive nipples covered up by the damp fabric He will fuck her hard against this door until they both come undone, and, when they are done here, they will use the sofa across the room as well. And then he will certainly peel her dress down to her waist, in strips and tatters if need be, so that he can once again see that her nipples are the same delectable shade of deep raspberry red as her lips are when swollen with arousal.

For now, he pulls away, panting harshly into her curtain of blood-red curls as he drives himself in and out of her as hard and fast as he can manage in his position, feeling dizzy as she rocks into his thrusts in tandem and scrapes her teeth down the side of his throat. Clearly, she is enjoying it as much as he, for her voice has gone high and reedy, her cries of his name echoing as fast as she can breathe them out beneath the violent shaking of their frantic pace. Already, through the haze of arousal and the lightheaded excitement of doing something so explicit nearby to the party, he knows he is going to come soon. This will be no long, drawn-out encounter. Already, the tightening of the coil at the base of his spine is growing too taut to ignore. Each time her inner walls flutter and clench, each time he bites her white skin and she arches and sobs out his name, he draws closer to that knife's edge.

So close to going over.  _ So close _ .

He wants her to feel him as he comes into her, as deeply as he can reach. He wants her to know that he leaves his seed inside her body once again, even when he is forced to pull out when he softens. He wants her to look between her legs later and find the stain of his seed on her intimate petals and know that he has owned her here as thoroughly as she currently owns him.

Her hands drop to grasp at his buttocks, nails digging into the exposed skin. Gooseflesh races over his body, a shock running up his spine like electricity through a copper wire. His breath hitches.

He leans in close, her delectable lips fluttering over his cheekbone and then hovers over his gaping mouth. "Fill me, Constantin," she demands. Only the words are canted such as they seem the plea of a beggar rather than the decree of a goddess. Her hands squeeze and her legs lock, and she pulls him in like she means to swallow him into her body whole and drain the life out of him like one of the vampires he read in books as a child.

He would be happy to die here, buried up to his balls in her depths, drowning in the sweet scent of vanilla and wine on her breath. If she wants to consume all of him, take him inside her, he will not resist.

With a stuttering hitch of his hips, he bites into her breast a final time and releases. It feels like a minor explosion behind his eyes, driving him to instinctively rock deeper and deeper with each subsequent quaking wave that shudders through his muscle and bone. Fuck, but she loves it, squeezing so tight around him, voice high-pitched with desperate repititions of his name, of "Costantin, inside me!" and "Please, yes!" and other less intelligible but no less delectable tangle of words.

And then, when it becomes too much finally, he pulls out, weak in the knees. Both gasp at the sudden wash of cold air over their previously joined sexs. But, unlike Constantin, who has reached his peak and will need time to rile himself back into a state in which he can continue to mate with her unhindered, Aurelie has not yet had her orgasm.

He will have to fix that. Immediately.

Before his legs can give out on him, he carries her to the sofa and drops her against the mound of cushions on one end. Kneeling between her spreading legs, he yanks the collar of her gown down, hearing the rip of the fine fabric as he goes, and almost salivates at her breasts, full and round with her large, beautiful teats sticking up and out for him to suckle and bite and tweak between his fingers until she cries. There is no force upon this earth that could stop him from taking one between his fingers and pinching it tightly, rubbing and twisting just to watch her gasp and look down upon his assault with wide, heat-stricken eyes and indecently parted, saliva-glistening lips.

He tugs harshly on the sensitive bud. "I want to sink my teeth into you here," he admits to her, leaning in close to hiss the words against her rosy ears. "I want you to feel the sting of your nipples against the fabric of your dress later - later tonight and tomorrow and a week from now - and think of how they became so sore."

"Big words," she gasps out, though the way her inner thighs tense and her fingers drop to circle her clitoris gives away her arousal. "Are you going to make good on such threats, Constantin?"

Normally, he would say that inciting him is the stupidest thing anyone can do. Challenging him inevitably ends in his competitive, domineering nature rising up like a monster in the night, red-eyed and ravenous for blood. But this has nothing to do with fighting for his fathers love or slaughtering those who have done him wrong. This makes the cooling furnace of arousal suddenly start its climb to the peak of his need again. Half-hard, his eyes move from her face, from her rosy cheeks and half-hooded, daring jade eyes down to her heaving breasts, swollen and exposed and waiting, her nipple captured between his fingers and thumb, squeezing tight enough that it must hurt.

He pinches harder just to hear her moan and see the wave of her body responding. 

Without thinking, he puts his teeth to her skin again. In a ring right around the tight buds his fingers have been abusing. One moment of relief before he gently has it between his teeth, tugging her tender skin, his hand cupping the undercurve to hold the soft orb aloft for his assault. Harder and harder, sucking and then nipping and then biting until her voice cracks on his name.

Dipping his other hand down, he bypasses where she pleasures herself in fast, circular strokes, instead driving two fingers deep. Pulling them out, fighting against the heated glove of her inner muscles, and then pushing in three.

His mouth switches to the other nipple, until now untouched. But not before he sees how deep a red the first has become beneath his mouth. The faint marks of his teeth in her skin around the areola, the rest the deep, rock colour of new bruising, red and swollen. Harder than before, his fingers push into her, driving the air from her lungs in a wail. Damn, he needs the other to match, needs both nipples to have the mark of his mouth.

Her breasts and her throat and her thighs and her sex. All of it. He wants to see himself imprinted on every part of her, wants her to want it again and again, wants the scrape of her nails over his neck, leaving harsh crimson scores and whelts, wants the simultaneous feeling of power and helplessness as he cages her beneath his body and gives in to her seduction beneath a tide of mindless need.

He imagines ruining the famous Aurelie De Sardet like this a thousand times more, having her beneath his hand and mouth, crying for him as he closes his teeth on her skin, as she frantically rubs at her center of pleasure and rolls her hips up into the piston of his fingers, has him harder faster than any fantasy of his fiance he has ever had. And he had just come not minutes ago!

Just like this, struggling up the incline to the edge, it is exhilarating. Her breath against his ear and neck, harsh and warm and wet. Her other hand leaving his sunlit locks a wreck, ripping some tufts loose in reaction to another nip or suck or thrust of his fingers. Her inner walls closing in, tighter and tighter, rippling with the build of her orgasm until he can almost taste the sound of her shriek on the back of his tongue and sees the colour of the vice of her channel around his digits.

She is beautiful as she falls. Not the otherworldly perfection of a deity or the half-hearted whimpering of some known whore or stranger in his bed to take off the edge when he was younger. He looks at the way her eyes roll back and flutter closed around her star-dappled verdant eyes, the way her scarlet hair spreads like blazing fire across the downy fabric and cushions, the way the red of her bruises and marks stand out starkly against the alabaster of her pale, glowing body.

His tongue feels swollen, clogging the back of his throat as she calms, as his fingers gentle into lenitive strokes against her contracting inner muscles. The biting changes to crushing licks and kisses, chasing away the phantoms stinging her flesh until she relaxes into his hold with a sigh. Surrendering to the bubbling golden glow suffusing her skin.

And there he is, hard as fucking stone and throbbing, eyes dipping down to stare at the red bloom of her sex. Damn it, he wants to be inside her again.

Naturally, she notices as soon as her eyes open again, her head rolling in his direction. Fingers flutter over him teasingly, leaving his jaw clenching hard against a whine. She traces the veins, circles beneath the head, teases the crown of his sex while he sits here, helpless to do anything but long for more.

"I thought I might need to put my mouth on you to incite you to arousal again," she tells him, and the pit of lava in his belly bubbles and rouls at the image that flashes behind his eyes, of her supple form kneeling, her breasts bouncing as she rocks back on her heels and bobs her head over his glistening sex. "But I see you have recovered sufficiently all on your own. Prepared for more already, Constantin?"

"Fuck, yes," he answers emphatically, almost embarrassingly quickly.

And she just laughs, her fingers circling between the inner folds of her sex and opening herself back up just to tease him, to show him how red and swollen and ready she still is for him to enter her, how his seed is slowly escaping along with her own glistening fluids. "Well, get on with it. Impress me, my love."

He is hardly going to turn down an offer like that.

Rolling over her without any further prompting, he enters her again - shudders at the vibration of her low groan against his throat - and begins to move.

And they tangle together once more. 

༄

**_The next day.._ ** .

It is very, very early in the morning and as every other morning, he is staring at the ceiling of his bedchambers. The very last rays of sunlight are peeking through the diaphanous curtains, tinting the sky pale red on the horizon and reflecting their crimson shadows above his head; that, of course, means it is time to rise and scrounge some breakfast from the kitchens. His first audience will start within a half-hour of the rising sun.

Pushing back the covers, the god is halfway out of bed before a soft hand catches at his forearm. Turning, he sees Aurelie's vibrant eyes peeking out beneath long, pale red lashes. Even half-asleep with her curly hair sticking out in complete disarray, she is the most breathtaking creature he has ever had the humble honor of gazing upon, and charmer that he is, Constantin cannot help but lift her hand from his arm and press a gentle kiss on her knuckles like a gentleman born and bred. "Return to your dreams, my love."

"Stay here,  _ minundhanem _ ," she murmurs sleepily, rising in all her naked glory to press a chaste kiss against his lips. Her scent swirls around him, all cloying sweetness and mouthwatering spice hiding underneath, and it leaves Constantin momentarily dazed. "Come back to bed."

"I have a meeting in a half-hour that I must -"

She laughs softly, and Constantin finds himself with an armful of luscious, soft curves and a wild scarlet mane of curled silk. "I forced Petrus to clear your schedule today, my love," she teases in that come-hither voice that never fails to get his blood stirring. "I thought we could use a day of rest with your lovely, lonely fiance - no pesky diplomats or sniveling native rebels to interrupt our privacy. I need you all to myself today."

"Have I been neglecting you, my love?" he asks huskily, nuzzling at the top of her head and brushing his lips against her temple. "I have the best remedy for this situation, haven't I, Aurelie?"

"Charmer," she accuses as her soft hands find their way onto his shoulders and wash over the hills and valleys of his broad chest and belly, nails gently running over the tender skin until the god breaks out in delightful gooseflesh. "You treat me so well, Constantin."

"And here, I thought I am the one being treated," Constantin teases back even as he falls into the thick, warm comfort of oceans of fiery red hair spilling around them as a curtain to hide away their secret reality from the world. For a long while after that, Constantin forgets everything but scalding heat and exhaustive, satisfying pleasure he finds in her arms, forgets all about responsibility and duty and being the bloody god of Tír Fradì. And it is lovely.

༄

The whole day was indeed wonderful. Late breakfast alone in their private chambers, still abed. Lounging on the balcony dais in the afternoon sunshine, sleeping and cuddling beneath Aurelie's warm caresses. Making love on almost every available surface without worrying about locked doors and missed meetings.

By the evening (after a dinner that leaves him feeling quite full and glowing with gratification), Constantin is more than pleased to settle himself down on a chair before the fire, his lovely Aurelie perched on his lap, her arms around his neck and her breath washing over his throat. Without thought, his hand rises to caress the graceful curve of her spine, fingers tangling in her long hair, bathing in the sheer brilliance of her presence against and all around him. Godhood be damned, he could sit here forever and never want for a thing. He wishes this stillness of silent companionship and trust would last for eternity.

He feels her nails tracing over the nape of his neck, the ridges of her knuckles rubbing at the edge of his jaw and up his sharp cheekbone. "Have you had a relaxing day,  _ minundhanem _ ?"

"Indeed, I have." Constantin presses her closer against him, until he can feel every inch of her curvaceous form entwining with his in an intimate embrace. "I do not think I remember the last time I was allowed to have breakfast abed, never mind had time to nap the day away in your arms."

"Too long," she says, looking up at him, and Constantin does not have the words to describe how absolutely glorious he finds her in the firelight, her cheeks softly flushed and her lips swollen from his eager kisses.

"Much too long," he agrees. "What do you say to an early night?"  _ And of course, a good many hours of lovemaking before finally falling asleep wrapped around one another? _ But that last part is implied.

Nevertheless, she smiles knowingly, that kittenish little grin that has his heart leaping up in his throat and his loins clenching with desire. "You ravenous seduce," she names him, giggling and straddling his hips. It takes all his willpower not to groan at the press of soft yet strong inner thighs against his flanks, so familiar and welcoming to cradle. "I have a surprise for you, my love."

"Is that so?" he asks, curious at the sudden change in her features. The sultry look softens into something that sends little tendrils of warmth spiraling down into his belly, filling him with golden sparks of affection and closeness. "And what is this surprise?"

"I went to visit Slán yesterday." Confused, Constantin looks up into her face, wondering what in all of Tír Fradì that is supposed to mean. "It was the reason I cleared your schedule for today, actually."

"Oh?" Let it never be said that Constantin is the brightest candle in the chandelier.

"Hm, yes..." Aurelie leans forward as if to share a most important secret, and her lips stroke over the shell of his ear and down, her breath hot and intimate on his bare skin. "We are going to be parents, my love."

_ We are going to... to what? _

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for the words to register in his mind, or for him to respond with a suitably coherent answer through the sudden haze of shock that falls down over his rational thoughts. Wide-eyed, he pulls away to look down at his fiance's face, broad hands falling to cup her round hips as he stares into her deep eyes. "We are...? You are...?"

"I am." Her soft hand captures his, laying it to spread over her still-flat belly. Somehow, knowing what lay beneath his trembling fingers, this single touch feels more intimate and sacred than any fondle or caress they have shared within the sandwiched privacy of their silken sheets. "Surprise," she whispers.

It is by far the best surprise he has ever been treated to. Breathless and wordless as he is, Constantin can only stare in star-struck wonder and gape at the news of such a miraculous little gift, bringing a thick, hopeful blanket of light down over his life even in such dark times, with responsibility for the entire continent riding on his shoulders.

Never before has he experienced such pure happiness.

Because basking here with his fiance and child in his arms - in the warmth and togetherness of being in the embrace of the person closest to his heart and soul - Constantin feels true bliss.

Yet a shadow looms in the back of his mind. An inky, foreboding presence warning him that this bliss will not last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I meant for this chapter to be entirely plot driven but alas, it clearly did not turn out that way. Smut is hard for me to write for some reason, I am not as explicit as some people but tried to break that mold in this chapter. I'm not there quite yet but I'm improving! We've seen a lot of soft, fluffy moments with De Sardet and Connie yet I am a lover of angst and well... happiness doesn't last forever. Thank you for continuing to read 'For Us', your support means the world to me. After years of little creative writing, I am still quite rusty and often struggle with the world of Tir Fradi. While I try to remain true to the game, sometimes I have to take some creative liberty and I hope no one is bothered by that. This is a small fandom, and I am quite fine with that. It's all worth it knowing that people like you are enjoying my work and are patient with me. It's my writing, and you guys who provide a little light within this dark world. So thank you. <3
> 
> Up Next:  
> Far away in Serene, Prince d'Orsay confronts a Yetch Fradi prisoner.


	25. Fear and Force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince d'Orsay does not quite know what to do about his rebellious son.

**༄ XXV.**

Rumors are already spreading like wildfire through Court.

This surprises Julien d'Orsay not in the least bit. Gossiping is a way of life amongst the elite, who rely on their reputation in all aspects of their lives.

After a year all communication between Tír Fradì and Sérenè has halted. Yet there was not even a whisper amongst the Court of what may have occurred for this to happen, not even from the Nauts who are still stationed at Sérène's port, too wary to depart. Of course the Prince is slightly perturbed and anxious, often wondering what sort of game is afoot. The Thélème and Bridge Alliance Embassies have gone silent, as they too have received no word from their factions nor Tír Fradì settlements. 

༄

"What is all this commotion?" Prince d'Orsay is not expecting to sweep into court first thing at the break of dawn, his wife at his side dressed all in silvery splendor, to find almost the entirety of the court assembled, able to hear nothing but the clamor of voices deafeningly filling the entirety of the hall. Most courtiers do not deign to rise from bed at a time before the royal couple daily take their rather undesirablely ostentatious seats in preparation for hearing the trials and tribulations of the people. At the appearance of the prince and lady d'Orsay in their midst, the masses turn their heads to stare, voices slowly fading into uneasy silence.

Looking about with hidden trepidation, the prince spots ambassador Sahin there off to the side of the room looking like he has just dipped his tongue into tar, eyes sharper than any jagged blades of ice and colder than any gust of frigid northerly wind. 

He is beyond angry, Julien recognizes, suspecting already the cause and feeling his stomach sinking down towards his toes as his suspicions are confirmed.

From the churning mass of brightly-coloured, heavily bejeweled fabric of the flock of disturbed and overwrought courtiers emerges none other than cardinal Antonius, dressed in his finest clothes and bearing the crest of Thélème across his chest in the form of a golden sun with rubies sewn into the design. That piece alone would probably buy an entire village in the countryside. The tunic beneath is a scarlet red lined with golden embroidery and, layered over, is a fine velvet robe woven from a deeper shade of red. The robe, of course, is speckled with peridot suns set with golden thread.

The whole sight of it - of him - of impossible wealth dripping from his form and the feigned worry marking his face and the misaligned body reveal of a confident and supercilious man, it all leaves the Prince frowning as he takes his seat and leans back to meet hazel eyes.

"Prince d'Orsay," cardinal Antonius says with a bow, "Forgive me for inciting such chaos and panic so early in the day and creating a disturbance of your morning plans, but I could not bear to wait with my news!"

_ Of course not _ , Julien finds himself thinking dryly. "Speak of your news then. How might we be of assistance?"

A faint smirk - just a flutter of the mouth - plays across those features, there and gone so fast that it would have been missed by one who looks not for signs of deceit with shrewd and incisive eyes. The man bows his head reverently, pleadingly, to the ruler. "Prince d'Orsay, it pains me to bring forth such news, but I have no other option but to seek aid from the Congregation. It appears that our settlements on Teer Fradee have been ravaged by wild beasts! And even the great cities of New Sérène and Hikmet have been abandoned!"

At his accusation, several women let out fearful gasps of shock.

Ravaged? Abandoned? Prince d'Orsay internally scoffs, wishing desperately that he can roll his eyes but trying to keep the outer veneer of his visage calm and collected in the face of such bitterly disgusting falsehoods. "And how have you come by this information?"

There is nothing at all in the cardinal's face to reveal that he is lying. Of course, there is not. The man is an expert at manipulating his prey. Without pause, he says, "Naut ships arrived today bearing the citizens of New Sérène and Congregation settlements! They all spoke of savage beasts driving them from their homes. The lady Laurine of Morage told me personally that it was not only crazed beasts who made them leave, but your own son!"

If he had not heard the news from lady Morage already, prince d'Orsay would have no idea what is happening. When in fact he knows much more than the cardinal. Laurine Morange and Mr De Courcillon have already reported to him what transpired in New Sérène. Allegedly Constantin had gone mad with the malichor and planned to take power from the god he only heard whispers of during his time on Tír Fradì. His dutiful niece sought to stop his son and forged an alliance with the factions to do so. Only to join Constantin in the end. 

_ A foolish child, just like my sister. _

Whispers break out all through the room, filled with excitement at the newest shiny bit of information to bandy about like candied chocolate, sweet upon the tongue. In the back corner, Sahin stands, looking almost apoplectic in his state of outrage at what is said. The man looks mulish, lips tight and pale across his face as he watches the proceedings with folded arms and bright eyes.

At the prince's side, lady d'Orsay touches his arm, reminding him to maintain a placid mask, to look unruffled by the sudden news, to not allow the spike of rage in his gut to overcome his common sense in these matters.

"You make heavy accusations," the prince says loudly, raising a brow. The room goes silent under his stoic regard, hanging off his every word as he stares down at their faces from above. "I should think that you will have proof, as my son may have already died from the malichor."

"I have various written documents from the Mother Cardinal herself that state Constantin is alive," Cardinal Antonius counters, "And now attempts to purge us from the continent alongside your niece."

Julien almost huffs with exasperation. Why would his son do this? Has the malichor driven him as insane as they claim? He had given Constantin the role of governor as a way to prepare him for one day becoming prince of the Congregation of Merchants. But he seems to have mucked that up, as he does everything else. Still, he had thought that De Sardet would tan his hide should he fall out of line. The woman might be of native blood, but she was raised by a princess in elite society and has a spine of steel. He had counted on her to keep his unruly son in check, but that plan seems to have failed. Perhaps it was a  _ waste _ to steal her from the natives.

_ My family is full of nothing but disappointments and headaches... _

"Of course, we will look into what you have said," he soothes with a serene smile, an expression that momentarily has Antonius perturbed slightly by the lack of panic or haste in the prince's actions.

_ Does he expect I will immediately jump upon the chance to wage war on Tír Fradì? _

There is some murmuring amongst the crowds, who obviously think that he is ready to accept such an accusation with essentially no form of proof at all, who are upset that he might balk at sending an army of Coin Guard marching up the banks of Tír Fradì to invade the home of evil savages while demanding the return of his son and niece. He suspects they hope for something more dramatic and are disappointed at the anticlimactic delivery of his decision and its lack of bloodthirsty accusations and sensationalism.

"Prince d'Orsay," the cardinal says then, "I fear that haste might be justified in this instance! I would not wish for Thélème to withdraw its support of your enterprise's over a misunderstanding about your heir..."

Julien stands and makes a show of descending his throne to grasp the man's outstretched hands, to enfold the ring-studded digits with his own and pat reassuringly. "Rest assured, we will do everything in our power to assist Thélème in reacquiring your settlements, as well our own. We would not want to miss any pertinent details in our haste, however. If you will allow me to view these documents, I will be grateful."

Antonius hesitates, frowning. "Yes, I believe that can be arranged. We must come together if we are to defeat those savages and cleanse the land of their evil."

Prince d'Orsay pats the man's hands, still within his own, once more as if to comfort. "Ah, this must be so distressing for you! Come along, and take tea and bread with me while we await your letters. Any other business this morning can surely wait, for I want to give this matter my personal attention."

"You are generous, prince," the cardinal responds, head bowing to hide the annoyance that flashes through his hazel eyes.

And Julien forces himself to continue smiling. And all the while, he wishes he could have pat in that face then and there for his hate.

"It is but my duty," he says instead. And wishes the words did taste not so sour.

༄

Julien throws down a stack of papers upon his desk and watches them scatter to and fro upon the wood, slipping and spilling onto the floor. Feeling disgusted and disgruntled and concern all wrapped into one large tangle of utter frustration.

Truth be told, he does not know what to think about the latest rumors circulating the court and the city. The insidious whispers.

They make him incredibly nervous. Certainly, he knows Constantin is not fond of him or their family, the lack of affection going back since before his conception and birth. Certainly, they have had many differences of opinion in the past. And most definitely, they did not get along as father and son might, but treated one another almost as strangers when they were forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder beside one another in a room. 

But the d'Orsay reputation is  _ everything _ . It is the rope that binds the Old Continent together while it's on the brink of falling apart. The Congregation of Merchants has fought hard to keep it's neutrality and forge alliances with both Thélème and the Bridge Alliance. Constantin has known since his birth that everything he does reflects the actions of the Congregation and d'Orsay name. There is a certain amount of poise, a reputation to uphold and an image to cultivate.

In public, father and son smiled and acted like a civil, loving family. Only giving away to their utter disdain for the other with razor-bladed smirks and eyes of adamant. But their words were always fenced in propriety, always straying just short of utter insult. 

An underhanded game they played indeed, and Julien would be lying if he states that he does not enjoy its intricacy and challenge. Does not enjoy facing off his only son in a battle of minds and wits. But this... is  _ madness _ !

Never would he have believed a d'Orsay would fall so low...

As to become a self-proclaimed native god! Of taking the side of those  _ Yetch Fradi _ savages! Throwing away his inheritance like it means nothing. All he had to do was find the cure for the Malichor and he would be allowed to return home!

But Constantin has been growing restless and obnoxious. Rebellious. With each passing year he becomes more and more treacherous, an ocean dissolving into the chaos of a violent storm that will sweep all away in its path.

No matter who they might be.

It makes the nagging, itching feeling of revulsion shudder through Julien's body. 

As well as the fear.

Because he knows that Constantin, that arrogant, foolish boy, will destroy them all. 

He clutches at the strands of his hair and tugs. Even a mad Constantin would not have it in him to openly betray his kin and all that he has been taught. The boy is too naive, too selfish and not even half as clever as himself.

_ Unless... _

Unless Constantin is merely a puppet and it is De Sardet who pulls the strings.

After all, prince d'Orsay knows no soul - not even his own charismatic wife - who can change the mind and whims of his son as his niece can. For he adores his cousin above all others, perhaps even more than his own position as heir. And if De Sardet ever demanded obedience of Constantin, then the boy could not help himself but oblige. 

Julien knows what he has to do. Clenching his jaw, he stands from his desk and makes for his chambers. It would not do to be seen by the nobility in his simplistic and unadorned evening robes, no matter their degree of fealty.

༄

Long ago Julien d'Orsay had looked upon Tìr Fradì and its mysteries as merely a profitable resource that would aid in expanding the Merchant Congregation. The natives were uncivilized and he viewed them as merely a resource, often shipping them from their home to the Old Continent to work. However where his intentions were purely profit, Thélème's were entirely different. He had watched as the priests forced and bullied natives into accepting their religion - those who remained, at least - and he didn't care much about it at the time. He suspected that the natives would rebel at some point and was confident that Constantin and De Sardet would quell that unrest together. However he could not have imagined his own son ever, of his own free will, commiting murder and bringing chaos down upon the heads of his people in the name of reclaiming a meaniningless pile of rocks.

Always, De Sardet has been an expert at ploys and games of court life, her face always so beautiful and voice always so charming to behold, yet her words a contradiction with her seemingly innocuous motives. A facet that, while distasteful and overshadowed by the light-hearted and kindly veneer of a generous legate, is necessary for one who might one day stand beside Constantin as princess De Sardet. It is a dark characteristic possessed by both himself and his late sister. He desired for them both to be wed, despite being 'cousins', in able to solidify the relationship between the Congregation and natives. It is still the only way he can see himself controlling both continents.

Few know the full story of what transpired in Tír Fradì, but what little Mr De Courcillon and lady Morage could tell him leaves the golden prince shuddering and wishing he'd not asked. For all that De Sardet is light and pleasant, Constantin appeared reportedly different when the teacher last saw him, through the cunning and dangerous courtly creative lurking beneath that lovely face (harsher now, and gaunter, the cheekbones starker and brows drawn farther down into a permanent scowl. Ugly black veins and dark blemishes marring his once perfect visage) is amplified. The hint of a shadow that lurks in those starlit eyes now spread and the glint of teeth between lips parted about a too-sharp smile is now more exposed. They flash through Julien's mind, and even the mere image he concocts incites instinct he did not know he possesses.

Prince d'Orsay might have feigned shock with an audience present if not for the sake of portraying faith in his kin, but in truth, there is no jolt of sudden realization that buzzes down his spine and leaves him shooting upright with surprise. 

Julien wonders if his son is playing a game. Perhaps he has other motives than retaking Tír Fradì for the natives. 

And, of course, the game will cause nothing but trouble. Not only for those involved but now also for the Old Continent as well. 

༄

"We do not need to do this, my prince."

He knows it is a lie as soon as he speaks. It sounds hollow upon his tongue.

"Please, reconsider. Please."

Hard eyes - dark eyes shrouded and dripping noxiously in sin - shifting abruptly to stare back at him, soul-piercing and narrowed with cold-blooded calculation. Julien d'Orsay halts his pacing at the interruption, loose golden locks hanging limp about his shoulders and face set in a scowl that would have sent the forces of Tír Fradì scurrying back to their villages, shivering in terror at his snarl.

Beneath the prince's scrutiny, De Courcillon winces back as if struck. By no means is he immune to that glare.

But he knows he can not back down from the argument, not without trying once more in vain to salvage a droplet of humanity. So many times, he has believed that they are past the point of no return - of no redemption or resolution. That they are so deeply entrenched in wickedness that there is no way back to the light. But he knows that this move, this insane plan laying before him like a suicidal plunge off a sheer drop, is doomed to failure. Doomed to end in demise. To shatter his relationship with his son and niece. The last chance. The true point of no return.

Julien wants to demand back Tír Fradì. And, should it be withheld, he wants to storm the island his son rules and  _ take it back. _

It is suicidal. Even with Thélème and the Bridge Alliance at his back, the host of Constantin and De Sardet is too powerful. He has seen the carnage wrought in their wake when they took New Sérène. He saw the beasts and  _ nadaíg _ they corrupted. 

"Do not be ridiculous, Courcillon. We both know there is nothing else to be done."

It is said so matter-of-factly that it makes the professor absolutely sick to his stomach. With distress and grief and horror. Julien sounds completely resigned, but it is a resignation formed in gleaming, vicious steel, tempered and battle-hardened with determination and desperation. There is no room for question in his statement. No room for hesitation or kindness or consideration. This is their path. Their only path.

And those sky-blue eyes, the eyes that he remembers once being so very gentle and sweet, remembers glowing in affection and joy, are so very cold and so very hot. Through the dim light of the royal chambers, the orbs are like lightning, flashing with each movement.

With anger. With frustration and loathing and vengeful lust. But also with fear and pain. So much pain that it stings and burns to witness its fingers digging deeper and deeper into his beloved prince and shaking until prince d'Orsay is torn to pieces.

And, though he wishes to argue further, though he wishes to make his prince reconsider, De Courcillon knows very well that he can not.

If Julien is the fiery, wrathful spirit, curdling in anger at the desolate desperation of the Merchant Congregation's looming fate, then Courcillon is his counterpart. The waters smooth, rippling surface, cool to combat the searing, bubbling heat. The sorrow and denial lashing against the bitter acceptance and resulting self-hatred.

Upon his tongue, bitter is the memory. It is not a night he can ever forget, with the candlelight splashing premonitions of blood across cobbled stone and cracks of shadow upon the footstep of every door. With his student's eyes outshining the very stars as they stared down into his inner core, urging, demanding, screaming silently for his undying, unquestioning loyalty. Never taking denial as an answer.

Courcillon does not feel that he has the option to back down, to turn around and flee back to Tír Fradì, to surrender filial devotion and run like a traitor and a coward from the seemingly impossible task of vengeance and domination suggested by his prince, it will paint him with unnamable shame. And he, unable to stomach the thought of disappointment and mockery for his misconceived cowardice, has given in and taken the wrong path.

He remembers staring straight into the eyes of Constantin, who raised his sword to the sky, reflected in scarlet. Remembers swearing never to return if only to save his own life.

Yet he knows that he cannot go against his prince. 

And he has no one to blame but himself.

There is no "going back" now. The bridges are burned and the labyrinth of time unravels at their heels. Julien can not allow Constantin and De Sardet to jeopardize the valuable resources on Tír Fradì as well as the Congregation's relations with the other factions. Everything weighs heavily on that small continent, including their survival.

This is their only chance to find a cure for the Malichor. To hopefully free the Congregation of its curse. Thus they must cut off their hands to save the rest of their agony-wracked souls.

To make the darkness of obsession disappear from Julien's eyes. To salvage what is left of the man from before Constantin left and his sister died. Before De Sardet was born upon the Naut ship, before ever having journeyed to Tír Fradì in the first place.

He wants again to see the kind-hearted soul who ruled with strength but also compassion. 

But it will never end if they do not end it now. Thus, in despair of his fate and loathing of his son's foolishness, he will pursue their goal to whatever ill it might find.

Feeling his eyes burn, De Courcillon looks up at his prince and does not wince at the clashing of their eyes, his soft and deep with sadness and Julien's boiling over with the roiling inner ocean of negativity and senility. "Yes, I know." He whispers.

"Good. Be ready to leave at first light." There is no compassion for his plight and no diffidence in his prince's resolve. Julien, fey-eyed with the madness and the need and the utter loneliness, can not be convinced to abandon his insanity. He stares at Courcillon, and his eyes might as well be spears for how they stab through his body and leaves him hanging in unimaginable agony, helpless and hopeless.

"Remember where your loyalties lay, De Courcillon. And do not falter." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this was hard to write. No matter what I did, prince d'Orsay never ends up like how I want since he is such an imposing figure and we know next to nothing about him in the game. I hope you all enjoyed it despite my misgivings! I'll be increasing the chapter count soon but I don't want to be too hasty as I am not sure how much is left yet. The next chapter will either be a De Sardet centered one or a Vasco one. We shall see.


	26. The Path Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vasco begins his journey alongside Kurt, Aphra and Lauro to rescue De Sardet.

**༄** **XXVI.**

The first day of their journey might be more productive if Lauro hadn't spent a good part of it vomiting into the bushes.

Just thinking about how much time they are wasting makes him wonder if he is ever going to leave this forest again or if he is doomed to roam with this band of misfits through the wilderness for months on end. They are already so far behind that for all he knows Constantin and Aurelie are already marching their army towards San Matteus.

Kurt takes the lead up front with both Aphra and Vasco following behind, Lauro taking up the rear. 

"Well, this is going well," Vasco comments sharply, hearing the retching start again, which inevitably leads the entire party to pause and wait until it is finished.

He exchanges glances with the Coin Guard commander, who seems just as miserable as to participate in this whole charade of cooperation as he is. The pair then glance over their shoulders at poor Lauro, whose face is hidden from view as he kneels in the dirt, back visibly heaving with his fast breaths and choking coughs.

Well, they all know the Naut sailor is a complete lush who drinks constantly, first thing in the morning when he opens his eyes until he goes to bed at night, every single day. Now that he has gone a few hours with little more than a sip or two of their limited alcohol supply, it is truly not surprising that he is violently ill. Vasco has seen this before in his own men aboard  _ the Seahorse _ . Alcohol, indeed, is a brilliant way to forget about the feeling of having red blood splattered over one's hands and evil deeds tearing through one's blackened soul. It is a shame that it is not permanent.

Blandly, not feeling nearly so sorry for the pathetic sailor as he should be, he wonders why the boy needs to drown himself in drink. 

After a few minutes, Lauro waves Aphra away. "I am fine," he chokes out, voice hoarse and rough from the strain. Stumbling to his feet, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and makes a face quite contradictory to his normal enthusiastic and outgoing personality. "We should continue while it's still light out."

_ It would be easier to continue if you had not simply burdened us with your presence _ . Vasco wrinkles his nose and abstains from saying what he actually thinks, well aware of the fact that the boy had volunteered. Supposedly he did so to repay De Sardet for finding his friend.

Slowly, they continue on and Vasco's eyes focus on the looming forest once more.

"You have been quiet."

Vasco blinks, turning to stare at the Bridge Alliance alchemist. "Pardon?"

"You have been quiet," Aphra repeats. "Too quiet. Normally, you would have something vicious and inappropriately sarcastic or unpleasant to say by now."

_ Oh, I have plenty of things to say, _ he thinks to himself, narrowing his eyes upon the woman. He is still not certain whether she is here by request of admiral Cabral to watch his back or if she agreed to come along in order to seek revenge against Aurelie.

"Why are you here?" he asks snidely, in place of answering, baring his teeth as his upper lip curls. It is the sort of expression that often leaves grown men shivering and leaning away in discomfort. "We both know you hate De Sardet. And I cannot imagine you wanting to reconcile with her."

"Teer Fradee's sorcery has turned Aurelie against us. Like Constantin, madness has overcome her. I wish to cure her of this corruption," Aphra snarls, the venom in her voice, in the vibrant earthy tone of her eyes, far outstrips Vasco's own disdain for the condescending and bitter alchemist. "At least you and Kurt are not liars and traitors of your own people. You have always been truthful about your cause and about your actions, no matter how ugly or blind they might be. And you always protect your own, even at the cost of innocent lives. Whereas De Sardet now hides her intentions and commits murder without remorse. I witnessed that firsthand in Hikmet."

Ahead of them, Kurt flinches sharply.

And Vasco, for his part, wonders if any of this is true. He knows that Aurelie has never tried to hide what she is, has never tried to explain or excuse away any mistakes she has wrought in the name of duty. 

But, personally, the admiral rather feels like her own actions - her fierce protectiveness of her own family at the cost of many lives beneath her silver blade and the sharp edge of her words - is nothing but an attempt at redemption. An attempt to avoid making more mistakes, to avoid the deaths of those she loves. Yet how can he think that when she now betrays all those she once called friends and allies. 

Vasco's purpose is different. He must do his best to reconcile with Aurelie, to make up for leaving her behind. But he does not seek forgiveness.

He wonders if Kurt does. He knows that he has been harassing members of the Coin Guard out of the ravenous need to be forgiven for his crimes, to quell the stinking, rotting, festering wounds left behind by guilt. Vasco knows that attacking Aurelie and almost killing her weighs heavily on his conscience. If he had the chance, would he commit the act again?

"Perhaps there is no corruption at all," he finally says, voice no less viscous, not hiding the small amount of enjoyment he takes in seeing Aphra brought low. "For my part, I will do whatever it takes for De Sardet to see reason. If she resists, only then will I allow you to do what you wish."

They fall into silence, both sets of eyes boring uncomfortably into Kurt's back. If it makes the commander uncomfortable, the man does nothing about it. Does not dare turn around and look at them. Pretends that they are not even here.

And then Lauro starts throwing up again. And Vasco does not bother to stifle his groan of annoyance. 

_ Just fucking wonderful, _ he thinks harshly.  _ This is going to go well. _

At his side, Aphra lets out a long-suffering sigh.

༄ **  
  
**

The first night, no one can decide who should stay awake to keep watch.

Vasco is tempted to just forgo the whole thing - they are still just in the heart of  _ Tír dob _ , so there is little danger of suddenly being overrun by natives in the night - yet it is still the wilderness. Constantin's corrupted  _ nádaig _ and beasts could still be prowling in these trees, waiting for the moment to strike.

To be honest Vasco is concerned that, if there is no night watch, he might be dragged off by one of those foul shadow creatures. Except there are not many potential choices for who should stay awake, and no one person can be the unfortunate miser forced to keep watch every night. Eventually, they will all be required to take turns staying up. Which meant, at some point, he will be expected to lie down and fall asleep with  _ Lauro _ watching over him all night.

Sitting all around, they stare at one another.

"I shall take the watch tonight," Kurt says, sensing that Aphra will protest if Lauro volunteers and Vasco would protest if anyone else does.

No one protests.

In the background, Lauro is back to throwing up. By now, there can not have been anything left for him to empty from his stomach. And of course, between each bout of throwing up, he takes little gulps of wine, trying to stay the detoxification. They all do their best to ignore the rather distasteful noises. That is how Vasco falls asleep on the first night. To the sound of the fire crackling and crickets chirping and the Naut sailor throwing up his guts into the undergrowth. 

Maybe tomorrow will be more productive.

But he isn't holding his breath.

༄

Predictably, he only makes it about an hour - perhap two, judging by the height of the crescent moon - before waking to the darkness, sliced open by the soft orange glow of a dying fire. Upon his breath is a sharp gasp, but he swallows it down and stays quiet, eyes blinking rapidly as he takes in his surroundings.

No one else is moving. Near the fire, Kurt is sitting up, staring off into the distance, and his ice-blue eyes are almost like tiny stars beneath the firelight. Shockingly, for a long moment of fatigue-induced haze, Vasco almost thinks that it is not the Coin Guard sitting there silently, brooding into the night, watching over his sleep. Instead, for that tiny span of infinite time, it is Aurelie gazing down into the flames. His heart leaps into his throat with a guilty pang of hope.

And then, it crashes back down to earth, and it hurts. Because De Sardet would never be here with him willingly, not now. Because her last action had been to chase after her mad cousin into the mouth of the volcano.

_ Do not be ridiculous _ , he tells himself, sitting up and trying not to let the ache get the better of his senses. He and Aurelie might not have been on the best of terms before the battle, but that is no reason to lose his composure where anyone can see.

But it is easy to be blind. And Vasco has been willfully blind for a very long time.

He does not like to admit when he is in the wrong. He does not want to admit the truth and thus has looked the other way. Pride is hot in his blood, indignant and fierce. But even more so than that, the pain that sears with each pang of his heart only becomes sharper and more potent with the knowledge that he desperately tries to ignore. The knowledge that his love is unrequited.

_ "Vasco, you know that I care about you. But I am not sure I love you in the same way as you do me. Please, do not make this more difficult for us than it already has to be." Her voice was soft, nearly pleading, and gentle. But underneath lingered the strain. _

_ Irrationally, his anger ignited. _

_ "Is it your uncle? Has he threatened you?" _

_ "If true was my love for someone, no force upon this earth could halt me," she hissed back, he was startled by the catlike glimmer in her eyes.  _

_ "Then... why?" he asked, frustrated, embarrassed and flustered. "Why?" _

_ Why? _

Why indeed. But he knows why, does he not?

_ "Is it Constantin? He's your cousin, Aurelie!" _

_ "Do not bring him into this fight!" she cries, her patience wearing thin. "Between us, there can be nothing but the innocent love of a young man and a woman indulging his foolish wistfulness to soothe the burn of her guilty conscience." _

_ "I am certain your lover would agree." It was low and vindictive. As soon as he said those words, the captain wished to recall them. _

_ Especially when her eyes flashed in fury and her lips blanched to white. _

_ "Tensions rise between the factions as my dear cousin grows closer to death each passing moment! I do not have time for love or fleeting fancies. Yes, during our time together I truly did love you. But now my heart falters and I must remain focused on my quest!" _

_ Why does it have to be so difficult? _

_ Why does the woman he loved with all his heart have to be in love with her own  _ cousin _? _

It is all Constantin's fault. What the golden heir has done to win the love of their legate, Vasco dares not speculate. But he knows they have been lovers in secret for a very long time, and he knows also that he has shoved all the signs, all the hints that have been lying out in the open for him to see and piece together. Every whisper passed between their bowed forms in the shadows, every time he watched them slip away into each other's company for privacy, every time they touched a little too long and a little too tender with the tips of their fingers.

Vasco does not want to be jealous of Constantin. He wants to believe that what lay between the heir and his 'precious cousin' is nothing more than friendship.

But it is not. And no longer can he turn away. But neither can he relent.

_ "You know that duty far outweighs feelings, so why do you continue this pursuit?" _

Because he is a fool. Because he is  _ in love _ .

Because he can not stop.

And that, perhaps, is why he blindly journeys across the continent for her now.

Staring as he is, eyes distant but as bright as the stars overhead, of course Kurt notices. The man's head turns, light striking sharp, grizzled cheeks.

The illusion of his lover is thoroughly shattered. "You are awake," Kurt says quietly.

There is really no point in attempting to sleep again. Not for some hours, at least. Not until the images that writhe and scream in the back of his mind fully dissolve back into the shadows from whence they came. If he tries to rest now, rolling over wordlessly and ignoring the Coin Guard like his more ornery half wishes to do, he will just be awake again within the hour and feel all the more terrible for his troubles.

There is no protest from Kurt as he moves to sit a few feet away by the fire instead. “Were you thinking of her?”

“How did you know?” the Naut asks sharply.

“Your expression, I suppose. She weighs heavily on my mind, I can see it.”

“We’re doing the right thing, Kurt,” Vasco says without hesitation. As if to assure himself. “De Sardet would do the same for us were we in the same position.”

“That’s what I had thought as well, during Hikmet’s defense. But then again you are different. She may still have feelings for you as she connected with you far more than the rest of us.”

_ Does she? _ Vasco does not really think he deserves her regard. Nevertheless, it brings him no small amount of hope to think that she might still feel genuine love for him after leaving her behind, that he might not be doing all this only to reach the end and have her turn her back upon his love, that she might come back to him and they can have the same happiness together that they had once enjoyed before they both mucked it up.

_ Well _ , he thinks, fingers fiddling with a hunting knife that he pulls from his boot,  _ it will not be exactly the same. But it will still be beautiful. _

Wistfully, he sighs. He does not deserve her. At least not yet.

"I don't know what I'll do when we see her again," the commander continues, unaware of Vasco's thoughts.

"Neither do I," the Naut answers bluntly, plucking up a piece of firewood sitting upon the edge of their ashy little fire and tearing long, jagged lines across its burnt bark. "But Constantin will have her thoroughly guarded. It will be difficult to reach her."

"That golden bastard," Kurt mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing in annoyance. "I loved him once as a student, but now he is a maniacal murderous lunatic."

"He must have a weakness," Vasco spits. "Even gods have weaknesses."

"You already know his weakness as well as I," the Coin Guard counters, not in the least bit bothered by his companion's nasty temperament or startlingly sharp words. "It's always been De Sardet."

"She would not allow us to kill him."

"You're right, even if she is sane." Kurt replies, eyes turning back to the smoldering fire, almost out but still glowing. "And I am no more immune to her ways than you."

Once upon a time, the suggestion that he is easily manipulated by De Sardet probably would have had Vasco's hackles rising and his pride smarting. Young and heavily influenced by his own sharp disdain for men who are swayed by a pretty face and fire in their loins, he would have snapped and snarled that  _ no _ , he is definitely not one of those hare-brained morons who fall over themselves to keep their lovers happy. 

But Vasco has long since acknowledged that there are more important things in the world than his pride. Instead of feeling insulted by the suggestion, he lets out something that might be laughter, just a short bark of amusement. "I suppose that's true. If there is anyone who can pull my strings with such ease, it would be her."

"Definitely her," Kurt agrees. His voice is distant. Wistful.

"We are all brought low by the women we love," Vasco says, feeling the same bitter amusement as he looks up at the cruel and cold sparkle of the stars. "What about you? You're older than I yet have no wife."

The glare he receives is less-than-scathing. More tired than anything else.

"There was a woman," Kurt admits. "I've never said anything about her before. She is well above my station and very much not interested in me besides. That vivacious, wild sort of woman who dedicates her life to duty above all else."

"Sounds a lot like De Sardet," Vasco says. He remembers the long days and even longer nights thinking about her, when she had haunted his every thought, dogged his every step, and reminded him with every breath that she was not by his side, that she may never again and there was no one to blame but himself and his stupidity. 

Even then, with all those things giving him icy cold comfort when he was alone with his cursed thoughts, he had missed her so terribly it sometimes made him feel as though he might drop dead from heartache.  _ Imagine that?  _ His silent smile is wry and cold, but the heartlessness is directed inward.  _ A Naut dying of heartbreak?  _

Is that what Kurt feels without her? That feeling like something is broken and missing?

Glancing at the commander, he can see that the man's features are softer. Nostalgic in a way of a man picturing long-past moments of bliss. "What happened to her?" he asks nosily. Because, of course, he has to ruin the moment of quiet contentment on the other man's face. It is beginning to make his skin crawl.

Immediately, a shadow blocks out that happiness, and he feels his tension drain away. 

"Not that it is any of your business," Kurt snarls, "But she fell in love with another man."

"Is that why you're helping me rescue Aurelie?" he asks in a fit of sudden realization, turning his eyes upon the Coin Guard.

Kurt will not meet his gaze. "I want her to be happy."

_ So do I _ , Vasco can not help but think, his heart racing at the thought of her smile, of her brilliant laughter.

And they say nothing else between them. Vasco is lost in thoughts of his beloved Aurelie - as he is certain his companion is lost in thoughts of the woman he has never even told about his admiration - and neither of them particularly desire to speak. The sharp longing as a blade between his ribs. 

Night's past, he had endured this very pain. Trapped and held back from what he holds most beloved by invisible bonds. A few more nights will not kill him. Staring into the fire, he endures. 

Just a while longer.

༄

They are making marginally acceptable progress.

Vasco does not call it  _ good _ progress. That would have involved a near-sprint through the forest to make up for several days of slow travel. But they are moving, even if Luaro is still stumbling about with all the grace of a drunken  _ andríg _ while making just as much noise as one.

But it is still progress, at the very least.

Subpar at best but marginally acceptable enough that Vasco does not try to press his companions into following the road long into the night. He could have gone on straight through to dawn with little problems after a handful of days of actual sleep to reinvigorate his body and mind, but he senses the others are not so well-rested or so eager to continue without so much as a nap. 

Still, he pushes them hard, pausing only when Lauro needs to stop for a short breather. Which results in the whole lot collapsing shortly after their rather sparse dinner. Vasco is, to be frank, honestly surprised that there has been so little fuss with him taking the night watch. But here he sits, upright and open-eyed, staring at the sprawled forms of his companions littered all about. Even Aphra had not fussed a bit, only giving him a long look before rolling over to face the other direction.

Only about an hour or so after the others have all curled up and gone to sleep, he hears the shuffle of one of them. At first, he thinks they might be awake - turning his head, he realizes it is just Kurt who tosses and turns, voice murmuring low and raw beneath his breath - but it is clear the man is still sleeping and merely plagued by nightmares.

"He has been like that for several days now."

Truly, Vasco does his best not to appear startled, for he hadn't heard the approach of the scout. Still, he likely fails to keep the other's sharp almond eyes from dissecting his body language, from catching the way his spine goes rigid with the sharp jolt of fear and now shivers as the shot of adrenaline drains away. Annoyed with himself, he shoots the woman a look that may as well embody the jagged, broken blade he momentarily thinks of jabbing into said woman's belly.

"Everyone is on edge," Aphra says, sitting down a few feet away with a sigh, looking worn and tired but not so badly as some of the others. "Kurt is not usually so high strung but as we get closer to Hikmet, his nervousness increases."

Vasco blinks, mouth twisting thoughtfully. "The middle of nowhere is not particularly reminiscent of anything triggering."

Aphra snorts softly. "I doubt it is the setting which he finds disturbing."

_ We all have our vices. All of us are equally disturbed and ruined _ . Bitterly, he thinks of his own inability to sleep out of paranoia.

"Kurt told me that you were in charge of Aurelie's capture," he begins gruffly. "Said that you performed.. tests on her."

"She is my friend," Aphra counters,"For better or worse I wanted to find a way to cure her of  _ en on mil frichtimen's _ power."

"Hm..." Vasco thoughtfully hums, eyes slipping back over to stare at Kurt, who has rolled over in his sleep and looks uncomfortably twisted. His blanket is half thrown aside, and the back of his tunic has ridden up enough to see just a hint of scars - vivid, scarlet welts drawn deep into flesh - that are otherwise always kept hidden. The man even bathes out of view of the rest of the company to avoid having them exposed where other eyes might see them, though anyone with a brain knows from whence they originated.

Vasco has seen those marks before riddled across flesh. Many men are left scarred anytime De Sardet appears on the battlefield. Her enchanted blade leaves a distinctive mark, burning easily through layer after layer of cloth down to the flesh below and scarring.

"Did you find anything?" he then asks, looking back over at Aphra.

"Of course I did," the scout takes off her cap and shakes her head, dark curls fluttering down over her shoulders where they have been unbound at the end of a long day of hiking through the wilds. "I already knew that Constantin had poisoned  _ en on mil frichtimen _ when he bound himself to multiple places, so I suspected that he did much the same to De Sardet. I drew some blood from her and found that I was correct. Her blood hue was red but some of her cells were turning black. As if the malichor passed onto her when they made the connection."

Swallowing sharply, the Naut looks away. Would that mean that Aurelie is truly becoming mad, due to the malichor? It is hard to say for certain. The madness in Constantin had been so subtle at first. It was but a phantom, tucking deep beneath layer after layer, beneath a prince who had once been the pride of the Congregation for his beauty and fair judgement. Constantin had appeared entirely sane and safe to the outside eye. Vasco would be a fool not to consider that the shadow might not be in Aurelie too. De Sardet has a reputation for being cruel in that terrifyingly intelligent manner of a woman who brings others low and torments them with merciless intent. 

He shudders. He does not want to think too much about that.

"At least we now know what we might expect," he murmurs halfheartedly. "Do you... do you think she is alright? There has been no news."

"De Sardet has enough stubbornness, craftiness and sheer intelligence that I little doubt she is just fine." Aphra's face is static, eyes distant and mouth set in a firm and uncompromising line. But her hands writhe around one another, tangling and unraveling over and over. "Forgive me, I know nothing else. Before I had a chance to discover more about her condition, she used her new abilities to escape from the dungeon."

Guilt. Something that all of them feel as a noose about their throats, as a latch-less collar attached to a short choke-chain, holding them back from living their lives. Even now, Vasco feels it tightening about his throat until his breath catches sharply and his lungs ache with need, until he reaches up to grasp at the weight of the locket around his neck.

_ I am sorry _ , he wants to say every second of every day for the rest of his existence, and it still will not be enough to take the feeling of failure away.

But then, they all feel it, do they not?

Aphra, whose fingertips are turning purple because her digits are wrapped about each other so tightly as she apologizes in a wavering voice for not doing enough. Lauro, who drinks himself into a state of absolute oblivion and now looks so miserable that Vasco is almost certain the Naut will put himself right back into a wine-induced stupor at the first chance. Kurt, who screams and bitches at everyone because it feels like doing something to make the pain stop when, in reality, and lack of foresight, at how he almost killed the woman he thinks of as kin.

_ We are all ruined _ , he can not help but think again, wishing he can erase the sight and sound from his memories. Wishing he can erase it all and tear it down and build something better in its place.

But time does not work like that. 

Mood completely destroyed by a mere conversation - he actually feels, while not optimistic, at least somewhat motivated about this endeavor just minutes ago - now Vasco wonders if there is any point to any of this at all. More than anything, he wants to rescue Aurelie but is there still hope? Leaning forward, he rubs at his eyes with his hand and pinches the bridge of his nose as he squeezes them shut, hoping that they will keep the tears burning behind them at bay.

He does not want to look at Aphra. He does not want the woman to see the glossiness of unshed grief he knows will be shining in the firelight.

"There is nothing to be done about it now," he says, weary and cynical. "I am certain no one else blames you. After all, you did what you could. If you had stayed any longer or attempted to stop Aurelie, you would most likely be dead like the hundreds of others in Hikmet."

"I could have done more," Aphra insists and the look of hatred is back in her almond eyes, glowing with an inner fire that reminds Vasco too much of Constantin's fey gaze and crazed smiles for comfort.

"When we all return to San Matteus - provided we manage to steal Aurelie away - you will have all the time you need to discover a treatment for her," he says, staring down at the waving of the grass in the faintest of breezes, ignoring the sounds of Kurt's troubled sleep nearby and the sound of someone else stirring and shifting restlessly in their bedding. "All we can do now is hope for the best."

Aphra lets out a little snort, a pained thing that lacks its normal acerbic bite. It sounds more like a sniffle. And Vasco still does not look. 

They linger with silence between them but for the sounds of nightmares. Some ways away, Kurt shuffles beneath his blanket, and Vasco can see the commander's hands clawing at the edges of the cloth, pulling it up about his neck and cheeks as if to muffle the noise whilst his body shudders.

"We should wake him, don't you think?" Vasco asks then, motioning towards the man's tossing and turning.

"He will wake on his own after a time," Aphra answers, sounding as tired as Vasco feels. "And I doubt he will appreciate you bringing attention to it. We have all been pretending not to hear."

"Are you going to go back to sleep?" he asks then, when the silence stretches.

"I will wait until Kurt awakens," the scout says, still looking away, off into the shadows of the trees that are, Vasco supposes, infinitely more reassuring and fascinating than looking into Vasco's eyes where the naked truths hovering near the surface would be bare and easily discovered. "Once he settles back to sleep, then I shall try to rest. Before it starts up again."

"If that is what you prefer," Vasco mutters, eyes falling back to the grass again. Counting the blades one by one rather than listening to Kurt's rising panic, second by second as he watches horrors in the mirror of his mind, reflecting before his eyes.

They sit together and wait for it to be over.

༄

Back to his routine sleeplessness the previous night, Vasco now feels his feet dragging slightly with the first vestiges of that cursed fatigue as he and his company trots through the grass at a steady pace through  _ Dorgred, _ clinging to the path with sheer tenacity and no small amount of pure luck. Always has it been difficult to follow the subtle trails left by the natives.

But now this. They come to a halt as Vasco looks about himself, scowling at the picturesque view of towering peridot-leaved deciduous trees waving in the breeze like smarmy, mocking and unhelpful foes. He blinks once and then again, taking in the sight and feeling the constriction of his lungs trying to force curses up and out through his throat in a wave of unpleasant smog and ash.

"What is it?" Kurt walks up to stand at his shoulder, staring with blank eyes at what, to the uninitiated, must appear to be a whole lot of nothing. Just a handful of trees and bushes and little else besides. Once this place was lush with life but now it lays barren due to Constantin's far-reaching poison. Yet it is not the landscape that is bothering him.

Turning to the Coin Guard, Vasco fixes him with a cold stare. "There is something you're not telling me."

This seems to give Kurt pause, those pale eyes slithering away to linger upon Aphra a ways away, crouching next to Lauro in the grass, exchanging quiet words whilst they partake in a much needed water break. "You're right."

"Tell me."

His face grows pale, but nevertheless, he nods. "Before we left San Matteus, a letter arrived from the Congregation of Merchants, written in the hand of prince D'orsay himself. He is coming here to Teer Fradee, Vasco and he wants you to join him."

"Why is this the first I am hearing of this?"

Truly, Vasco does not mean to sound so irate at being left in the dark, but he can not block the words before they roll off his tongue. Flabbergasted, he stares at his friend, blinking in his image smattered with the dapples of morning sunlight shimmering through the lush canopies, highlighting every shade and dip of that familiar face. 

Kurt reaches down to awardly dust off his grime-encrusted trousers, unable to meet the Naut's glare. "I thought you had enough to worry about without dealing with the prince's whims, too."

"We are in this endeavor together," Vasco answers, trying not to let his upset show through in his face or his voice when he knows the man means well, even if his good intentions leave the commander with a bitter taste on the back of his tongue. Judging by the exhausted look he is given, he fails entirely to keep his outrage from shining through. "That letter was meant for me and I should have the choice whether to accept or decline such an invitation."

"Perhaps you are right, and I was wrong to withhold this from you," Kurt says with a sigh,"But it matters little now. Alone, we cannot hope to reach Aurelie... but with allies the task would not be as difficult.”

Vasco fights back a sigh of his own, caught between exasperation, resignation and disappointment, leaning against the scratchy trunk of an oak. "What do you mean?"

A frown crosses the commander's face, deepening as those blue eyes stare at the Naut, eye to eye, unflinchingly. "Hikmet's defenses are tight and the four of us cannot breach its walls with pure determination alone. If we can get him to cooperate, I'm sure prince D'orsay would lend us support in recapturing his niece."

He does not attempt to counter his words. Prince d'Orsay may be just as desperate to retrieve his niece and stop Constantin just as much as Vasco is, perhaps more. In any case, he would be a great asset in this battle, but the man is untrustworthy. The nobility have always hid themselves behind veiled intentions. He assumes the prince would be no different. 

"We should speak with him before we reach Hikmet," he agrees. 

"I was only trying to help," Kurt blurts out. "As your friend. I truly did not mean to keep this information from you."

"I know," Vasco says patiently, even kindly, but without give and without mercy, for the coddling has gotten stale. "But I am a grown man who can make decisions for himself. I wouldn't have rejected the invitation outright, not without a little investigation into the prince's intentions."

Of course the Coin Guard looks mildly suspicious, as if his mouth wants to pop open such that he can spew a counterargument to his friend's words. "I wouldn't blame you if you did. Anyway the letter mentioned that he would be docking in New Sérène, and that was over a month ago. I'd assume that he's there now."

Vasco lets out a disdainful snort. "We best get started if we want to get there in a timely fashion. I suspect that the prince is not the patient type."

A short time later Aphra rejoins them and is briefed about his conversation with Kurt. Making sure the commander is a good distance away, she abruptly turns to Vasco. "This is an absolutely terrible idea, Vasco."

Stretching his arms briefly above his head, the admiral feels a satisfying crack echo through his spine. "We have no choice."

That naturally, earns him an icy glare. "The Congregation is full of silver tongued merchants who know how to talk you into giving up your last gold coin. Their prince is no different."

Vasco offers a smirk sharper than any blade. The sort that usually has men flinching back, sensing danger tingle in the most primal fashion down their spines. Of course, the cold woman is unaffected, returning an unamused look.

Without replying or looking back, he sets off in the opposite direction through the wild grass.

And three sets of footsteps follow him quietly along the path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and happy new year everyone! By some miracle I managed to post this monster before Christmas and I'm so happy that you'll be able to read it over the holidays. This year has been a train wreck for sure and we've all suffered but I have hope that the new year will be much better for all of us! Thank you for reading. Comments and kudos help fuel my inspiration. 
> 
> Next up:  
> A dark storm brews over Hikmet as the lines are drawn.


	27. Sane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince d'Orsay makes his move and Aurelie deals with the consequences...

**༄ XXVII.**

_ It took all of a moment's glance to dismiss the young heir of the Congregation.  _

_ Kurt had always favored the strong, experienced warriors with scars and muscles, warriors whose tales and strength were written into the annals of their flesh through marks and calluses. Little use does he have for the fledgling boy, a child who has never seen battle, who is slender and willowy in body and breakable in mind. Constantin was too soft. Too sweet. _

_ It was in his eyes, in their liquid softness when they rested upon the weapons master and a friendly, lovely smile broke across that flawless face like the rising of the dawn to the east. Beautiful though it might have been, Kurt found himself once again put off by the saccharine expression, by the openness of that gaze and the swiftness of such acceptance. The child-heir had barely known him, and yet already seemed to trust him enough not to come to harm during combat training.  _

_ It was foolish and reckless. Or merely naive. He suspected greatly the latter. _

_ Thus, it was little surprise that he was displeased to be given the task of training said heir. He would rather have woven between the ranks of the Bridge Alliance delegation, scoping out the latest weaponry the alchemists and scholars had come to trade.  _

_ The mere thought drew his attention away from his charge. His charge who wandered aimlessly with eyes - widened with wonder - roving to and fro in delight in this land of shit and decay. So much more interesting were the daydreams of what might come when night fell, and they kept his gaze only half on the prince as they traversed behind the safety of the palace gates in the fading afternoon light. _

_ "You seem distracted, Master Kurt." _

_ The boy spoke, and it was as much a voice as he had come to know. Its tenor was sweet, like the trill of a songbird in the forest during spring. Kurt had always liked deeper voices, the ones that resonated through the body like thunder. _

_ Just another reason to find a way to hitch this burden upon someone else so that he might be free to pursue to his heart's content a new Bridge Alliance blade. But he could survive one day of babysitting without commiting folly and muttering scathing words upon this child. After all, he did not intend to be cruel to the little one, no matter how much he might dislike his duties; Constantin might not be very strong, but he was a gentle thing, like the maidens who twittered at Kurt from afar with their huge blue eyes and their soft little hands. _

_ With a sigh, he pushed away the fantasies of new sharp blades, instead facing the young boy under his care. "I do not mean to bore you, my lord." _

_ "I am not bored in the least," Constantin protested, blue eyes glittering like sapphire stars. "I merely wanted to inquire after you. I do not mean to be annoying." _

_ "You are not annoying." A blatant lie, but Kurt did not want to explain to the Prince exactly what he might have said to make this fragile spirit cry like a little girl. "I have other things on my mind that have nothing to do with you, my lord. Forgive my inattentiveness." _

_ Pink lips - lips that were full and belonged to a girl in Kurt's mind - pursed into lovely bows. Even the weapons master was hard-pressed to avoid the admittance of their attraction, so supple did they appear. But the huge eyes and the complete lack of seductive curves and angles kept away any unwanted imaginings. Patiently (as patiently as he could stand) he awaited a response. _

_ Perhaps the little one would retreat to his quarters and leave me free. That would have been a blessing and a relief. _

_ But, of course, it was not meant to be. _

_ "Since you are bored, Master Kurt and since I am curious, let us spar." The smile was back, so sickly sweet, looking so innocent when accompanied by the flutter of eyelashes upon rosy cheeks. It was like looking at the face of a flushing, giggling virgin with her first man. _

_ He was supposed to fight this child? _

_ "Are you sure that is wise, my lord? Your training has only just begun." _

_ "Tell me not that you are afraid. I have been practicing my spare time." For the first time, that voice was something other than soft and smooth and pitched with perfect tenor. A hint of mischief fluttered within its current, just barely brushing the surface. I promise I will go easy on you, Master Kurt." _

_ It should not have been so easy to bait a Coin Guard soldier, but... _

_ But did the child really think...? _

_ And as much as he would have liked to deny it, the confidence in this sprout, this half-trained fledgling, left his pride smarting. That this skinny little twig of a creature with that soft face and those naive eyes thought he was so much more skilled that Kurt would not present even a challenge... _

_ Oh yes, his pride was smarting something fierce. He would not allow such a slight to pass ignored. Or such a challenge to slip unanswered. _

_ ༄ _

_ And that was how they came upon the training fields. It was, perhaps, unwise of Kurt to allow a little bit of mockery to cause such an itch beneath his skin, but it was not to be helped now. Besides if the child wanted to run to the prince and whine about losing to a mere soldier, he could always be honest and tell the sovereign exactly whose idea this little game had been. _

_ "I should think only knives and swords would be fair," the boy said, a beatific smile still in place as he stepped upon the compressed dirt of the field and left his pistol behind in the grass. All about him, the golden droplets of dusk dappled the clearing, spilling fire and blood upon the paleness of the child's hair. Like this, he almost looked like a golden-haired creature of old, a true warrior. But then the shadows cutting across that face waned, and Kurt could see naught but the child underneath. "What do you say to that, Master Kurt? Is such a match agreeable?" _

_ "It is agreeable." _

_ With only a knife in each hand, he looked across the field, into the eyes of his opponent. So cold and striking, that blue. It would be a shame to break such confidence and leave behind the shards of the arrogance of foolish youth. _

_ "Whenever you are ready, my lord." _

_ "Very well, then." _

_ Twin knives slid from their sheaths and rested with the ease in soft-palmed hands, their hilts entrapped by manicured fingernails and delicate digits to match. At least the boy held them correctly. _

_ And he felt his heart still. _

_ For, in that moment, the smile that seemed so sweet morphed into an edge sharper than any knife, teeth half-bared and flashing with whiteness in the fading gleam of daylight. Dark brows that had been arched high over wide eyes were now lowered and furrowed over half-hooded, narrowed orbs of vivid blue. In a mere moment, everything about that face, everything about the set of the body and cant of the lips, had changed. _

_ Like some ancient creature did the slight form stand, titled forward at the ready, every inch screaming out for blood and sport, in lust for the dance of death. It sent a chill straight down Kurt's spine. _

_ "Are you going to make the first move, Master Kurt?" Even the voice, which had only before shown a hint of anything other than easy friendliness, was biting and low. Burning over his skin. _

_ There was no sign of that delicate creature he had been worried to break with his ruthlessness. No shadow of an inexperienced young child who knows not the hardships of battle, despite the slightness of frame and slenderness of waist. Not even a trace of that softness remained in the face and form that had, before, caused Kurt to dismiss with such ease the budding young heir. _

_ In his eyes, he would have compared the rustling of the leaves of Sérène for their vibrancy of life, now he saw only fire. Only raging flames reflecting back toward him, hungry to burn away the mirage he had seen earlier, to tear through his disregard and blindness and leave only wreckage in the wake of his defeat. It was passion and power and wild beauty, all the things Kurt has always been wary of. _

_ And it was standing before him, staring back. Waiting for his move. _

_ In a rush, he leapt forward, heard the screech of their meeting blades and saw vividly the flashes of flame across metal as they danced and spun about each other like predatory creatures. He had expected an easy match, perhaps a minute at most before he swept the blades from his opponent's hands and rendered the child vulnerable and defeated upon the ground at his feet. _

_ Yet, they danced as two who knew the steps and the motions. Danced until the air rushed in and out of Kurt's throat in scalding waves, scorching away the insides of his lungs. Until his arms ached from the strain of taking swift, pounding blows aimed toward his body. Until sweat stuck to his face and throat the wisps of his hair that came loose from his hat in the violence of the moment. _

_ Until, finally, he was netted in by eyes shining with vivid, vehement joy. His guard fell for but a moment, and a moment too long. Pain shocked through his wrists, one right after the other, and his blades lay at his feet, out of reach when a razor-sharp point rested over the racing pulse at the base of his throat.  _

_ "Do you yield, Master Kurt?" The challenge from before burned bright, stabbing through him with a rot-hot blade. For a moment, he almost feared that the prince might slaughter him if he said "no" and refused to kneel in submission. _

_ Carefully, he knelt. "I yield." _

_ And watched as the fire withdrew as though vacuumed into a pot of sapphire brightness. The blackness of those eyes faded, replaced once more with the gentleness of early spring, as though its darkness had never existed. Sharp lines so embedded into the flesh were all but erased, leaving behind only a mask of round curves and friendly smiles. _

_ A soft hand - a hand Kurt knew could wield a blade to terrifying affect - caught his own and pulled him back to his feet. It was warm and smooth and tiny. _

_ It was everything he didn't want. Back, again, was the seemingly naive child, the boy who sheathed his blades and turned his back to the weapons master without question, whose laugh split the air in high peals like birdsong through the trees, echoing with delighted revelry. "What fun! I enjoyed our match, Master Kurt. Perhaps we can spar again, and maybe my cousin can join as well." _

_ "It... it would be an honor, my lord." _

_ The strange childish being was returned. But this time Kurt was not fooled. _

_ This time he could see a glimmer beneath the facade. He could see the flames writhing behind their thicket of blue wonder and delight. He could see the creature of passion and lust sneaking through the shadows of this clever lie. _

_ And, as he watched that willowy form sway and bend beneath the shadows of the palace, new daydreams began twisting and twining to life within the depths of his mind. New visions were birthed as he stared at the retreating form with the gleam of orange and red upon his silken locks. _

_ For Constantin had a spirit that scorched all it touched. _

  
  


༄ ༄

  
  


When it finally came time to tell Constantin of the missive she had received earlier that day, Aurelie struggled to broach the subject with any amount of delicacy.

Now is the time to do it, she knows. From across the room where he halfheartedly reads through scout reports whilst perched on the plush armchair before the fire, Constantin is eyeing her with no small amount of urgency, silently begging her to proceed with his flickering pale eyes. As they had discussed earlier that afternoon, whilst a mud covered scout dripped all over the front doormat and wrung water from their soaked hair, her lover is most likely going to take the news from her lips better than he is reading it directly from parchment.

Still, knowing what she has done for him and his past, about how protective he is of this little slice of happiness and how far he is willing to go for the sake of their family, she knows it will not be easy news to swallow. If not for the fact that all the advisors present need to know of the happenings in Tír Fradì, she would have waited until she is abed with her love to share the news. If she could, she would break it to him gently in the dark sanctuary of their bedchambers where the stoic outer shell of his being can crack and fall away freely without concern that someone - like Slàn, Petrus and Mev - might see.

They do not have the luxury of such privacy for this, however.

So, when they are settled in the main living area, gathering around the smoldering hearth keeping at bay any nighttime chill, she finally speaks. "I received a missive from our scouts by the coast today," she announces quietly, feeling her lover's body heat through her clothes as she tucks up against his side quite snugly, allowing his bulk to shift beneath her weight such that his eyes can look down and meet hers.

"Does another Thélème envoy approach that we must scare away?" he asks, lips quirking up at the corners. And it makes her heart throb knowing that it is not something so simple as that, or she would be eager for the little excitement.

Even as he says the words, though, she can see the glint in his eyes that bespoke of suspicion. Not cold and hard as though suspected of wrongdoing, but it is clear that he senses something that is strange about her behaviour this day, and that there are questions in those silvery depths. Aurelie is not a particularly loud woman by nature, going about most of her day humming or in the quiet, walking on silent feet even upon the creaky floorboards, only raising her voice when the  _ Yetch Fradì _ clans get in an argument and are in need of scolding. Even so, she still likes to sit and share words of her day with her lover, still likes to fill the ears of her mate and their closest advisors with the highlights of her typically pleasant but eventful adventures, explaining the joy she has found in expecting a child or chiding someone for getting mud stains on their clothes again or asking for input on living arrangements for the  _ Yetch Fradì _ .

Tonight, she is rather quiet and pensive instead. Thinking, inwardly directed, and not having the heart to make small pleasantries. The mood for simple joy is not there and who can really blame her for that, knowing what awaits them outside Hikmet? Knowing that their little slice of happiness is about to be filled with darkness.

"It is something a bit more serious than that," she admits with a bit of hesitance, fingers teasing over the firm muscle of his arm wrapped about her waist. "Prince d'Orsay has arrived in Tír Fradì and has summoned you and I to speak with him, but I think all of us should go. To present a united front."

Now her fiance's mouth is downturned, and she hates how harsh he always looks when he is not smiling or relaxed. Displeasure sits on his face like an intimidating mask in the heaviness of his disgruntled frown and the sharp, cruel cant of his eyebrows. "He is here? Why does he summon us?"

The others are listening. Petrus with a knowing and resigned look. The two  _ doneigada _ schooling their own shocked expressions.

"He says he wishes to congratulate his son's chosen bride," Aurelie finally says, voice low and tremulous with nerves. "And that he wants to discuss a peaceful resolution to regain New Sérène and Hikmet for their respective factions."

At first, Constantin simply gives an insulted and confused look, for he knows his father's version 'peace' would be enslaving and experimenting on the  _ Yetch Fradì _ . The continent is a goldmine for the Congregation and not one he would simply hand over to his son and niece. His motives are purely profit, as usual and now he hopes to manipulate us all into a trap. "That... that is absolutely ridiculous! My father is no man of peace, he does not own a single peaceful bone in his body! All he wants is the resources here! His only wish is to drain the continent of all its life and culture to fatten his pockets! And he wishes to congratulate us? Don't tell me you believe this nonsense, Aurelie?"

None of them can blame him for the raised voice, for the skeptical growls, for the look of fury on his features. Still, all but Aurelie are leaning slightly away, flinching back as if waiting for the true explosion of tornadic rage about to take place.

The worst, of course, is yet to come.

"No," she says, reaching out to lay a calming hand upon her lovers arm, to wrap another behind his head and cup the nape of his neck soothingly, holding him in place such that he is looking at her. Into her eyes as she perches half curled up in his lap. "No, I do not. I grew up in that house as well. I know what prince d'Orsay is capable of, how he thinks. He will take this land and all that it has through any means necessary."

"He is baiting us, thinking we will fall for his false peace. His false sentimentality. My father is a cruel and vindictive man but..." Silvery eyes narrow, thoughts spiraling behind their glowing fire so fast that Aurelie wonders how her fiance's mind does not simply unravel and fall to pieces. "...For once, we must prove him right. We must take the bait."

Slowly, Aurelie nods. Of course, Constantin is intelligent - to a frightening degree when he truly puts his mind to it - and will have no trouble seeing straight through his father's motives. "We must accept his invitation."

"Accept his invitation," he echoes. As though the idea of Aurelie being truly unsafe is too bizarre and unholy to even imagine. 

This of course, is the part Aurelie has been dreading.

"I've heard that he has forged an alliance with Thélème and the Bridge Alliance," she says gently, noting that Constantin is averting his eyes but Petrus and Slàn are openly engaged in listening, not even trying to pretend that they are still more interested in the flickering hearth-fire than in this mysterious missive from prince d'Orsay.

"My father has a habit of making false pledges. When I was a child he would ally himself with the powerful and wealthy only to trick them into giving up their secrets and possessions," the former heir says, struggling to find any way to not admit the prince's advantage. "He is a greedy creature, egocentric to his very core and probably a nightmare to negotiate with. His alliance will crumble and be of no threat."

"Well," Slàn interjects bitterly, entering the conversation and drawing Constantin's eyes to her sneering features, "He now has an entire island at stake."

Such an expression is rare to see upon her aunt's face. She is not as soft-hearted as people like to believe, of course, but she is a generally soft-spoken and laid back individual, not prone to acts of sudden and inexplicable temper as Aurelie is. So, to see genuine rage hard and burning in those usually bright green eyes, almost darkening them, is something even Aurelie has rarely experienced.

Constantin's expression is grim. "I will not let him take Tír Fradì from us." And they can all feel the lick of his fiery spirit rising up from his core, bursting outwards to poke and prod in little stinging caresses, strained for the moment but threatening, nonetheless. The potential for an uncensored burst of temper and violence hiding just under the surface is there, so close to rearing its ugly head that they can all feel it like ash in the backs of their throats.

Aurelie is familiar with this aspect of her lover, having seen it once before on the morning after she had recovered from the Hikmet siege, having soothed it with gentle words until the red-hot heat was cooled back down, reminding Constantin that Kurt did not know the whole story, none of them did. That morning, after the perfect night of their joining, she had dived into the fiery embrace of his spirit and calmed the flames back down until he had been all but purring into her arms like a satisfied feline.

But, then, the offense now is less trifling. It is not only her life in the balance, but their child's as well should prince d'Orsay arrive on their doorstep.

And Aurelie is not certain of her ability to calm Constantin when he knows the full extent of what his father will do to her should he find out about the pregnancy.

Half of her is not certain she even wants to try and mitigate the damage his fey fury might wreak upon the heads of those allied with prince d'Orsay. That part of her, firm in the belief that they have been torturing and eradicating the  _ Yetch Fradì _ for years rebels, wanting to see prince d'Orsay and Mother Cardinal feel the flames and blade of her lover's wrath. A man who would have no qualms about stealing their child for his own political gain...

It makes her stomach almost heave and spill right then and now.

Only the potential consequences of her lover rampaging and slaughtering the well and truly deserving monsters at their doorstep keeps her stubbornly in his lap, running her fingers gently though his unbound golden curls, trying to calm him physically before sharing the worst of the news. For months, they have been trying to integrate their family - Constantin, Petrus, Slán and Mev - into the goodwill of the other clans, which have not been accepting of physical brutality and retaliation. The last thing they need is more blood on their hands.

They are not worth the risk. That is what she tells herself, in any case.

"We are outmatched, Constantin but we must use our wits to get by unscathed. He cannot learn about our child at any cost," Aurelie murmurs, still stroking her cool hands upon her lover's fiery skin, watching as a stark flush creeps up towards his cheeks whilst his eyes turn whiter and whiter, "He will take it to exploit the natives. As far as we know, our child is the first  _ Yetch Fradì _ and Congregation mix. It is what he will want to use to tie Tír Fradì to him."

Constantin's lips whiten, pulling back in a snarl, and his body shifts, growing restless beneath her weight, sitting up from his lazy recline. "Why did you not tell me of his arrival sooner? I would have gone to his ship myself and ripped it apart with my vines."

"I was concerned you would not take the news... well," Aurelie explains, not wishing for him to turn his rage onto prince d'Orsay, at least not yet. "I was trying to wait out the situation until we settled the clans and solidified their allegiance. However your fathers Naut fleet has begun sailing closer to Hikmet..."

There is a deadly stillness about him. Aurelie feels the little hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck stand on end. "How close?" he asks, voice dropping half an octave and shuddering through her bones.

At that, she bites the inside of her cheek. "I am told that they are just outside  _ Glendgnámvár _ and they are not alone..."

She can not finish saying it. Not when she knows how much it'll break his heart, what worry and anxiety and fear it will bring upon him. 

And she sits there in his lap, listening to him breathe, looking into his eyes as he processes her words.

"Who is with him?" he asks.

She tastes blood on her tongue, having bit firmly into the flesh of her inner cheek. Slowly, unwilling to admit her own fear and sorrow, "All of the remaining Nauts with hundreds of ships packed with Coin Guard, Bridge Alliance, Thélème and Congregation... Alongside Kurt, Vasco and Aphra.."

They all wait for Constantin's response. Petrus fidgets nervously, fingers fluttering over his nearby book but not daring to so much as brush across the leather binding and break the heavy silence. Mev looks like she might be ill, face pale and tinged faintly green. And Slàn... Well, Aurelie has never seen anyone so grimly disgusted as she does, her hands are clenched into fists and shaking where they are knotted in the fabric of her leggings.

  
  


Finally, her lover swallows. Pale blue eyes, staring into hers, shining bright with half-remembered terror and the full force of d'Orsay wrath. "I will kill my father if he so much as touches you," Constantin finally hisses out, declaring as seriously as he might a confession of love and viciously as he snarled after the Siege of Hikmet in a fit of wild rage. Aurelie feels his hand upon her upper arm, clenching almost too tightly and bruising her flesh. "I will see my father and tell him that Tír Fradì is ours and we will obliterate his army should they land on our shores. Then we will drive Thélème from San Matteus and any remaining continental faction."

"Constantin," she croons, brushing her hands across his cheeks, trying to calm him as his voice begins to grow loud and waver with his emotion.

But he pulls away from her touch, not allowing her to soothe him as his spirit flutters and burns around her with a hurricane's force. "We will go two days from now. We cannot allow this to make the  _ Yetch Fradì _ fearful and ruin our alliances. However I will see to it that your traitorous friends and my father pay for what they have done to us."

"We all want their heads cleaved from their bodies," Mev interrupts, drawing Slán's gaze. And the  _ doneigad _ winces beneath its burn but does not turn away and flee from what she sees in those depths. "But, we cannot be so hasty. The wolves gather and our allies do not trust you enough to go to war. Even with the powers you've... stolen, you will not be a match for that many Naut ships."

"If we wait any longer they could be here within days." Constaintin says, already moving Aurelie out of his lap, trying to deposit her onto the cushions of the loveseat such that he can stand. What he plans to do once he is on his feet, she does not know. But she knows that, once he starts pacing like a caged beast, she will find him doubly difficult to calm.

Stubbornly, she clings, keeping him down, even though she can feel his chest heaving at twice its normal speed beneath her palms. He is unwilling to tear her grip away from his body, but she can feel his muscles tremble like an earthquake beneath her weight, desperate to  _ stand _ and  _ move _ and to do  _ something _ .

"Constantin," she interrupts, pulling his attention back, reconnecting their gazes. "Mev is right. We must make sure Derdre and no other  _ mál's _ or  _ doneigad _ will betray us should battle ensue. Síora will help us soothe any tensions or worries, I'm sure. But we cannot blindly rush in."

_ If I can get him to focus on what needs to be done, _ she thinks just a touch desperately,  _ then, perhaps we can get through this with little bloodshed or anything worse. _

"You're... you're right." He admits, and she recognizes the first hints of distress showing through as the flash of fury begins to cool, that anger leading to a dead end of unfulfillment now that Constantin is pinned in place and denied agency to go forth and right the problem immediately. The first hint of tears - born out of frustration at the lack of action and shame at being instinctively fearful - peaking through a whirlwind of white-hot rage (and half hidden terror) in the widening of his pupils, darkening his bright eyes to a dim sapphire as they glisten wetly. The fingers that brace her arm are trembling. Moving her hand to brush against his neck, just at the base, she can feel his heart racing beneath the weight of her palm. And she feels her own working double-time in response, because she knows him, knows that something is not right, knows that he is struggling to keep from falling apart now that the immediate effects of the anger have mellowed and he is left shaking in their wake.

Only Slàn seems wary, eyes narrowed and knowing and concerned as she looks on, lip worrying between her teeth and hands writhing fitfully over the smooth lines of her leggings. Petrus, though, leans forward, mouth grimly twisting. "We will do everything in our power to make sure no harm befalls De Sardet nor your child."

At this, Slán gives a sharp nod of agreement. And her eyes speak of things - acts of unspeakable violence and aggression - that Aurelie can scarcely even begin to formulate within her own mind. Instinctively, though, she can sense the danger. The incisive, spear-tipped gaze of Petrus. In the predatory snarl of Slán.

And she can sense her lover teetering on the brink of sanity all the while. Just a hair's breadth away, waiting to be triggered by an unwise word.

"We will," Mev agrees quietly, and her voice echoes with the soothing quality that slides like silk over the soul. "But let us be calm first. We cannot rush off and do something foolish." There is a pregnant pause, and then she speaks again, and the smoothness is broken by a jagged note. "Whatever should happen."

Aurelie is too focused on her half-panicking mate to contemplate what she means, why there is a sharp jab if uncertainty in the  _ tierna harh cadachtas _ ' voice. 

"Constantin," Mev says, voice gentling. "Are you well?"

_ Of course he isn't! _ Aurelie wants to shout in frustration, to yank her hands through her hair just to feel the sting break through the jittering of her limbs, or maybe to cry. Because Constantin is shivering now beneath her, and his eyes are distant and not entirely here with her, and she is not quite certain what to do when murmuring against his ear and stroking her hands through his hair does not bring him back into the present moment, does nothing to make the strange physiological responses cease.

Constantin swallows. Again, and again. Like his tongue is too dry or too swollen to speak. 

"My lord?" Petrus leans closer, a look of consternation upon his face. "What is the matter?"

"Maybe..." Slán rises from her seat and in that moment Aurelie could have wept out of gratefulness. "Maybe the two of you should leave us. Constantin is not feeling well, and I think he would prefer to have his privacy and not be gawked at."

A mulish look came over Petrus and Mev but they obeyed, rising from their seats and offering them both shallow bows. They both cast dark looks over their shoulders before they disappeared behind the door, shutting it tightly behind them. 

"Here," she says suddenly, reaching past her niece to force Constantin's head up. "Constantin?"

Nothing but short, shallow breaths meet her words. Even a quick, hard shake of the blonde's shoulders yields nothing. 

"Aunt?" she asks, voice high-pitched with her own rising fear.

"I have not seen something like this in a... in a long while," the  _ doneigad _ admits. "I am going to trick him into slumber. It is easier than trying to coax him back out of this state. Trust me, I have dealt with this in  _ Sisaig Cnameis _ ."

The words carry a bitter tang. Nevertheless, they are not directed at Constantin, who her aunt handles carefully, pulling into an embrace. 

She does not hear what Slán says against her fiance's ear. But she does see him go limp. Carefully, he is lowered onto his side to rest in her lap, head cradling up against the softness of her slightly swollen belly. And her fingers can not help but trace his features, now lax and expressionless with the onslaught of sudden rest. Pale eyes are half-hooded, still far away, but not gleaming with the emotions of a cornered animal.

Sleeping. He is sleeping.

"He will not dream," Slán adds. "Do you want to move to your bedchambers? I can help carry him upstairs."

"No," Aurelie says softly, struggling now with her own bout of tears, prickling hot at the corners of her eyes. "No, I... I do not want to move."

_ I think I will be sick if I try to stand. _

Carefully, the former legate reaches out to grasp her hand. "Forgive me. I should have suspected something like this might happen. He has not had such an episode since the malichor and thought him beyond such incidents. Clearly, I was being too optimistic with my assessment. I should have known not to speak of such heavy topics around him. Especially when they involve his father."

"You did not know," her aunt counters. "I will leave you to rest here, then and see you in the morning.."

"Wait," she says as Slán makes to pull away. "Please, stay. Just for a few minutes."

In this moment, Aurelie is not certain she can stand to be alone. What if Constantin awoke and she is unable to reach him with her voice? What if he needs Slán again?

Perhaps sensing the direction of her thoughts, without comment, the  _ doneigad _ settles down on the floor beside the loveseat. The sound of her breathing is loud and deep and full, and she listens to its slow and steady rhythm through the crackling of the low, dying fire in the hearth. All the while her fingers stroke over Constantin's face. Over his sharp cheeks covered with countless dark blemishes and spiderwebs. Over the softness of his lips no longer pursing and white. Over the natural curve of his brow, neither downturned in rage nor upturned in fear. And his breathing, too, has grown slow and deep in concert with her aunts. In turn, she feels as though the tightness about her lungs has released, that her own panic is receding, and everything is, while certainly not good, no longer on the brink of disaster.

"Do you think..." She swallows, trying to find the right words. "Do you think we should stay here and send you and Petrus in our stead?"

Deep green eyes look up at her. "Constantin would not like being shoved aside. He would view it as an acknowledgement of his weakness, that he has been defeated by the obstacle of his own mind. And there is little he hates more than being weak and vulnerable and fearful. Than being incapable."

Aurelie knows this. Many things her fiance has admitted to her in the privacy of their bed in the velvety darkness of the night. Including the darkest scar left behind by his time in New Sérène. And that scar has little to do with being repulsed by his physical appearance and everything to do with what he had done afterwards.

Loss of control. He fears nothing more than loss of control. Spending decades in a cell-like palace, tortured at the whims of his family, freedom stolen out from under his feet, treated like a toy for the amusement of others, he knows what it is like to be trapped. Even when he was near death, he explained to her once, his father had denied to visit him. And Constantin could not summit and overcome the hatred that bubbles still in his gut at the thought of his father - who he trusted and loved - also being his captor and torturer. Taking away his right to choose who he wanted to be and forcing him to continue with a life he had not felt was worth living.

She understands.

But...

"He is not ready to face his father," she concludes. "I worry that, even with the best intentions, things will not go well."

"I cannot force him to stay here in Hikmet," Slán finally answers, voice resigned. "He will do all he can to protect you and the child. To protect all of us. And I guarantee he will not allow himself to be left behind."

That much is true. Aurelie doubts she can talk her fiance out of it either. Stubbornness is the fatal flaw of the d'Orsay. And, though she loves them all dearly - loves Constantin and princess d'Orsay - she knows that the blood of d'Orsay runs straight and true in each and every one of them. Even swaying her mothers mind was nigh on impossible.

"If that is so," she says," then it is so. But I still hope that you can take a more active role if necessary. I know it is much to ask, but -"

"It is not too much to ask," Slàn interrupts. "I care about Constantin and you. Though it took me a long time to realize it, you are suited for each other."

A tiny smile crosses Aurelie's face. "Thank you."

"It is not something to be thanked for." With a soft harrumph, she leans her head back against the side of the threadbare loveseat. "I suggest you get some rest. The next few days will be long and hard."

Slán's cheeks are pink and flustered. And, even though the lingering mist of tears shudders of distress down her spine, she can not help but give a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back everyone! I took a bit of a hiatus last month, so please forgive me for the delay. Things are finally starting to boil with De Sardet and Constantin.. I truly enjoyed writing them in this chapter, along with a little more Slan. I spent weeks trying to think about how Constantin would react to the news that his father has arrived and I think I might have achieved what I intended? We shall see. Constantin and De Sardet haven't had many hurdles thus far and I intend to change that by showing that no, Connie isn't completely his old self just yet. There is still a darkness within him and I wanted to not only remind you of it, but also De Sardet. I think she has been getting too comfortable of late. 
> 
> Finally, Kurt's past pov was something I wrote a little while ago. I just wanted to understand what his relationship with Connie was, and show that he is a much better fighter than we give him credit for. We don't really see him fight.. if at all so I explored the possibility of him actually being quite good. 
> 
> I'm always open to feedback and truly appreciate the kudos<3


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